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PINK SUGAR 


O. DOUGLAS 








PINK SUGAR 


BY 


O. DOUGLAS 


Author of “ANN AND HER MOTHER.” “THE SETONS,” 
“PENNY PLAIN,” ETC. 



NEW NiMy YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 










COPYRIGHT, 1924, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 





PINK SUGAR 
— B — 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


^123*24' a 

3clA801247>i ' 


TO 

JOHN BUCHAN 

AND 

SUSAN, HIS WIFE 
BECAUSE OF BILL 




PINK SUGAR 



PINK SUGAR 


Chapter I 

“Now Mercy was of a fair countenance and there¬ 
fore the more alluring.” 

The Pilgrim’s Progress. 

DESCRIBED myself as a spinster without encum- 

A brances. I don’t know quite what I meant by it, 
but I thought it sounded well.” 

Kirsty Gilmour stood in the window in the spring sun¬ 
shine, arranging daffodils in a wide bowl, and laughed. 

Blanche Cunningham, lying back comfortably in a large 
armchair, looked at her friend appraisingly. 

^^How old are you, Kirsty ?” she asked lazily, choosing 
with care a chocolate from an opulent-looking box that lay 
on her knee. 

“I’m thirty,” said Kirsty, “but you shouldn’t make me 
say it out loud like that.” 

“How would you like to be forty, my dear?—that’s 
what I’ll be on my next birthday. But you don’t look 
thirty, child. You can stand in that glare of revealing 
sun and work with spring flowers and fear nothing. 
You’re rather like a daffodil yourself, now that I come 
to think of it, with that green frock and cloud of pale 
yellow hair—^your eyes are green too. Did you know 
that?” 

“Of course,” said Kirsty, attempting to make a weak- 
kneed daffodil stand upright, “that’s why I’m so fond of 


10 


PINK SUGAR 


jade. . . . ISTow, isn’t that pretty? They look as if they 
were growing in the moss. I like best the small single 
daffodils that grow almost wild, they have such an eager 
look.” 

<<Yei-y pretty,” Mrs. Cunningham said, glancing care¬ 
lessly at the bowl of flowers. ^^But, Kirsty, it’s absurd 
that you should be a spinster. How have you managed 
it?” 

“I wonder! Blanche, you married so young that, as 
I’ve often told you, you’ve acquired the male attitude of 
mind. Ho man ever allows himself to believe that a 
woman is single from choice, and, in your heart, neither 
do you.” 

^^Pouf!” Mrs. Cunningham waved the imputation 
aside and searched diligently in the chocolate-box. “I’m 
afraid I’m making a dreadful mess of your chocolates. 
I’m looking for a hard one, and I’ve squashed all the soft 
ones pinching them. . . . You forget, my dear, when you 
accuse me of unbelief that I was on the spot and saw at 
least two aspirants to your hand—at Cannes, you remem¬ 
ber? There was the hidalgo from the Tyne (I’ve for¬ 
gotten his name), just baroneted, with all his blushing 
honours thick upon him. How red the back of his neck 
was! And there ...” 

“Blanche,” Kirsty was smiling, but there was a note of 
appeal in her voice. ^^Need you talk about ugly things 
the first real day of spring? I’ve had no luck in suitors 
—let us leave it at that. . . . You really aren’t behaving 
very nicely. I’ve looked forward so to your visit, and, 
instead of giving me a week as you promised, you are only 
staying a miserable few hours—^you arrived at luncheon¬ 
time and you say you must leave by the early train to¬ 
morrow morning. I’ve so much to tell you and to show 
you, and you don’t seem interested . . . it’s very dis¬ 
appointing.” 


PINK SUGAR 


11 


Blanche Cunningham sprang up impulsively, upsetting 
the box of chocolates in her haste, and attempted to grab 
Kirsty and the bowl of flowers she was carrying in her 
arms. ^^But I am interested, Kirsty dear,’’ she cried; 
^^I’m dying to see every corner of this delectable place. 
How did you find it ? lAttle Phantasy, I love the name.” 

^^Just see what you’ve made me do!” said Kirsty, carry¬ 
ing the flowers to a place of safety, and proceeding to mop 
up the water spilt on the floor with her handkerchief. 
Then she sat down on the arm of her friend’s chair and 
tried to dry her wet fingers with her wet handkerchief. 

^Tt was the name that fascinated me,” she said. “As 
soon as I read the advertisement I knew I simply must 
live here. But I’ll tell you about that later.—To begin 
just where we are, do you approve of this room ?” 

She looked proudly round the gay white room with its 
wide windows of small-paned glass, and before her friend 
could reply went on: “You don’t think the chintzes too 
bright, do you ? I like a lot of colour in a country room, 
and I thought the white-panelled walls could stand the 
tulips and the parrots. Isn’t it luck that there should be 
such a good oak floor when we have so many rugs ? I col¬ 
lected them for years all over the place, hoping that some 
day I might find a use for them. That Bokhara one is 
my special find. When I showed it to Mrs. Paynter—you 
remember the delightful American lady?—she took it in 
her arms and hugged it and said, T don’t care how much 
you paid for this, it couldn’t be too much.’ ” 

Blanche laughed. “Yes, but I like best the big one in 
the middle. It makes me think of a meadow of bright 
flowers. . . . But it’s all charming: the dark old mahog¬ 
any, and the white walls, and the bright chintzes, and the 
gentle colours of the rugs. Somehow I’m surprised. I 
never seem to have thought of you as a homemaker.” 

Kirsty shook her head rather mournfully. 


12 


PINK SUGAR 


^^You see,” she said, the very first home IVe ever 
had, though I am thirty.” 

Blanche was silent, remembering the Kirsty she had 
first known, a rather listless girl, dragged from one smart 
hotel to another by a valetudinarian but sprightly step¬ 
mother. Change had been the breath of life to Lady Gil- 
mour. Plaintively seeking health, she had moved from 
one to another Pool of Bethesda, where in very truth she 
^^troubled the waters.” 

Thinking of Lady Gilmour, Blanche was conscious 
again of the hot wave of dislike that had so often engulfed 
her when she had come in contact with that lady in life. 
She remembered the baby-blue eyes, the appealing ways, 
the smooth sweet voice that could say such cruel things, 
the too red lips, the faint scent of violets that had clung 
to all her possessions, the carefully thought-out details of 
all she wore, her endless insistent care for herself and her 
own comfort, her absolute carelessness as to the feelings of 
others. Blanche told herself that she had done more than 
dislike Lady Gilmour, she had almost hated the woman— 
chiefiy on Kirsty’s account. 

She had first met Kirsty and her stepmother ten years 
before at an hotel in Mentone where she was recruiting 
after an illness in India. She had been interested at once 
in both of them, the pretty fragile mother and the young 
daughter with the cloud of pale gold hair and grave green 
eyes. They made a charming picture, she thought, but 
they were so constantly surrounded by a crowd of admir¬ 
ers, both male and female, that it was some time before 
an opportunity came to speak to the girl. When it came 
she found her shy and, for such an attractive creature, 
oddly grateful for attention and responsive to kindness. 
When she heard that Mrs. Cunningham was Scots she 
cried, ‘^But so am I, through and through—Kirsty Gil¬ 
mour—that sounds Scots enough, doesnT it ?” 


PINK SUGAR 


13 


^^And you live in Scotland she had asked. 

You see my stepmother hates Scotland. It 
makes her ill, she says: so draughty and cold. We seem 
to go everywhere but to Scotland. D^you know, I haven’t 
been home—to Scotland, I mean—since I was eight. NTot 
since my father died.” 

Blanche had laughed at the woeful droop of the girl’s 
soft mouth and said, ^What part of Scotland do you be¬ 
long to ? The Borders ^ Ah, well, you must see that you 
marry a Scotsman and make your home there.” 

Later on she had been introduced to Lady Gilmour, 
and had found her sweet and friendly and quite intoler¬ 
able. For the sake of seeing something of Kirsty she had 
tried to dissemble her dislike and make one of the admir¬ 
ing crowd that murmured at intervals, ^^Dear Lady Gil¬ 
mour, so frail, so touching”; but at all times Blanche dis¬ 
sembled with difficulty, and Lady Gilmour had herself 
seemed to feel the antagonism and return it with interest. 
She had done her best to wean Kirsty from her new friend, 
but Kirsty was staunch, and she and Blanche had corre¬ 
sponded regularly and met at intervals all through the ten 
years. 

Lady Gilmour had been dead about six months, and 
Kirsty had come, like a homing bird, to the Borders. 

^^Kirsty,” Blanche laid her hand on her friend’s arm. 
^^How ever did you stand it all those years? What an 
intolerable woman she was!” 

Kirsty sat looking in front of her. 

^^She’s dead,” was all she said. 

^Well,” Mrs. Cunningham retorted briskly, ^^being dead 
doesn’t make people any nicer, does it ?” 

it makes them so harmless and unresentful.” 

^‘As to that. Lady Gilmour wouldn’t be harmless if she 
could help it, you may be sure of that. I never met a 
woman with such a genius for mischief-making. ... You 


14 


PINK SUGAR 


were a model of discretion, my dear, the most dutiful of 
stepdaughters, but you aren’t naturally stupid—^you mud 
have seen.” 

Kirsty looked out to the wild garden where the daffodils 
danced in the April sun. All the light had gone out of her 
face, the very gold of her hair seemed dulled. She was 
again the listless girl who had followed apathetically in 
the train of her egotistical stepmother. 

When she spoke her voice too had changed: it dragged 
tonelessly. ^^Oh, don’t you see? If I had ever even to 
myself put it into words, I couldn’t have stood it another 
day. I never let myself say to myself how I hated it, 
I just went on—dreary day after dreary day. And after 
all, Marmee was all I had, she needed me, and perhaps 
she did care for me a little in her own way, though she 
couldn’t help always stinging me like a gadfly. I’ve been 
thinking since that my misery was greatly my own fault. 
If I had been a different kind of girl I might have enjoyed 
the life very well. To many it would have been rapture 
to go from one gay place to another, to have their fill of 
pretty dresses and dancing and tennis and no domestic 
cares or duties. But to me it was anathema. The fact 
is, I was born out of due season. I should have lived in 
mid-Victorian days.” 

Kirsty stopped to laugh at herself, and Blanche said: 

^^Yes, I know what you mean. You would have en¬ 
joyed what somebody calls The comfortable commonplaces, 
the small crises, the recurrent sentimentalities of domestic 
life’ . . .” 

Kirsty nodded. would indeed. I would have re¬ 
joiced in nurseries of bashful babies, brothers and sisters, 
warm family affection. But I was set solitary in the 
world with no mother and a very busy father. I suppose, 
poor innocent, he thought he was doing his best for me 
when he married again; and when I was eight he died. 


PINK SUGAR 


15 


. . . My stepmother didn’t care for children, and I stayed 
at school until I was seventeen. Then she sent for me, 
and took me about with her everywhere, made me call 
her ^Marmee,’ and liked people to say that we looked like 
sisters. She loved hotel life, and I loathed it from the 
first—the publicity, the abiding smell of rich food and 
cigars, the rooms with their expensive furniture and utter 
lack of homelikeness or individuality; the people who sat 
about fatly in fat armchairs, the way they gloated over 
their food, their endless efforts to keep themselves enter¬ 
tained.” 

Blanche nodded comprehendingly, and Kirsty went 
on: 

^Tt wasn’t only the hotels I loathed—indeed I might 
have enjoyed them if they had only been an interlude in a 
life filled with other things. But it was the way we 
behaved in hotels. I don’t know what my father did to be 
given a knighthood, but whatever it was, I wish he hadn’t. 
It complicated matters so. A title—even a very little 
one—has a wonderful attraction for certain people, and 
those people swarmed round Marmee like wasps round a 
honey-pot. I remember one idiot saying to me, ‘^How 
gracious dear Lady Gilmour is’—and poor Marmee lapped 
it all up like a hungry cat.” 

Blanche cracked a hard chocolate with her strong white 
teeth, and can see her,” she said. 

‘^And we were such snobs ourselves,” Kirsty went on. 
^We always pursued the worth-while people—Marmee 
had a wonderful keen eye for ^the best people’—and very 
often we were snubbed for our pains. It served us right, 
of course, but it was pretty ghastly. Happily we never 
stayed long in one place. Nearly always we quarrelled 
with some one, and Marmee lost taste for her new friends 
and left.” 

^‘Yes,” Blanche said, ^^she was like the lady in one of 


16 PINK SUGAR 

^Elizabeth^s’ books whose new friends liked her, and who 
had no old friends/’ 

^^Poor Marmee,” said Kirsty. 

^^ISTo, don’t pity her. She was the most accomplished 
egoist I ever came across. . . . But you were greatly to 
blame, Kirsty. Why were you so weak ? Surely you had 
the right to live your own life. Why didn’t you break 
away ?” 

‘Well, you see”—Kirsty looked at her friend deprecat- 
ingly—“after I was twenty-one most of the money was 
mine, and I couldn’t very well—I mean to say it would 
have crippled her a lot, and she liked to do things well, 
and— Oh, I know I sound frightfully feeble, but I can’t 
help it. I simply hate to hurt people’s feelings or make 
them feel uncomfortable. It’s the way I’m made. . . . 
I did try once to break away as you call it. It was the 
second year of the War, and I suddenly felt that I simply 
could not go on doing nothing but knit socks and make 
shirts and give subscriptions. I went off, after a wild 
scene, to work in a hospital. I hadn’t well begun when 
I was sent for. Marmee had had a heart attack, and the 
doctor—a new one—^blamed me severely for having left 
her. Oh, it was no good, Blanche. I was bound. She 
wove a web around me.” 

Blanche moved impatiently. “Heart attacks wouldn’t 
have bound me,” she said. 

“The War years,” Kirsty went on, “were the worst. 
We had no one even to be anxious about. I envied—^yes, 
I did—the haggard-eyed women devouring the news¬ 
papers. It is awful to be left out of everything. . . . And 
having borne no part in the War, we had the impertinence 
to be among the first who went to look at the battlefields. 
Marmee liked to say she had done things before the herd 
rushed in, so we motored from Paris by Amiens, through 
the Somme country to Arras. She was soon bored—^there 


PINK SUGAR 


17 


was so pitifully little to see. ^Shocking,’ she said, as we 
saw shattered towns and villages, blasted trees, miles of 
mud. You see, it was nothing to us. We weren’t recon¬ 
structing it all in our minds—we weren’t saying to our¬ 
selves, ‘So it must have looked when he saw it.’ ‘Here 
perhaps he stood.’ . . . On the road from Albert to Arras 
our chauffeur stopped at a hillock near the roadside. This, 
he told us, was the famous Butte de Warlencourt which 
men had died by thousands to take and hold. I got out 
and walked across to the hillock. It was an April day, 
with blinks of sun between wild beating showers of rain. 
My feet sank in the mud —Somme mud, how often I had 
read of it! There were tin hats and long trench boots 
lying about, and here and there stood a frail wooden cross. 
Every inch of the ground had been black with the blood 
of our men—I could hardly put one foot before another 
as I thought of what each step must have meant to them 
as they struggled up against pitiless fire. On the summit 
there were three tall crosses—like Calvary. ... A party 
of four, two women and two men, had got out of a car and 
were walking over the ground near me. The men evi¬ 
dently knew the place of old, and one said to the other in 
tones almost of awe, ‘D’you see ? There are cowslips grow¬ 
ing in the shell-holes/ The women were in mourning— 
a mother and daughter I thought, very pale and quiet. 
One of the men turned to them and said softly, ‘It was 
about here,’ and they stood still, their hands clasped as if 
praying. I crept back to the car and Marmee. . . . Oh, 
it’s wretched of me sitting here, talking like this, making 
myself out a creature of fine feelings, and blaming a 
woman who can’t answer back. I daresay I must often 
have irritated her when I felt superior and showed it. 
If I had known she was going to die I would have been 
so much nicer.” 

“You were amazingly patient.” 


18 


PINK SUGAR 


^Terhaps I seemed so, but I often wasn’t. There is one 
thing that comforts me, though, when I think of her. In 
her last illness she was surrounded by admiration and 
affection, and she knew it. She was only ill for a few 
days—really ill, I mean, for she was always delicate— 
and I think she knew it was the end, and the odd thing 
was she didn’t think about herself—she thought of others, 
she thought of me. I was so touched. And the nurse 
told me with tears in her eyes that she had never nursed 
a more delightful patient, and that evening when she slept 
peacefully away the doctor said, and his voice sounded 
really moved: ^A very sweet woman.’ I was so thankful 
to hear them speak so.” 

^^And thankful that the illness was a short one,” said 
Blanche dryly, ‘^so that they could speak so. Ah, forgive 
me, Kirsty; I sound a brute, I know, but you are such 
an incurable sentimentalist. You find everything and 
everybody touching.’ You spend your time wrapping 
up ugly facts in pink chiffon: you see life like a picture 
on a chocolate-box. Yes, I know I’m being horribly rude, 
but who is to tell you home-truths if not an old friend ?” 

Kirsty walked to the fireplace and bent over the log 
basket to replenish the fire. 

Presently she said, lifting a flushed face to her friend: 
don’t mind home-truths, and I daresay I am senti¬ 
mental, but please try to forget what I said about Marmee. 
All that part is finished with. Kow I can make what I 
will of my life. And I mean to make just as many people 
happy as I possibly can.” She stopped, glanced at 
Blanche, and added, ^'Kow I mean to live for others.” 

At this announcement Blanche sat bolt upright. 

‘‘My dear,” she said in a shocked voice, “I’m afraid 
Lady Gilmour has done more than spoil your youth. I’m 
afraid she has destroyed your sense of humour. Live for 
others. You say it in cold blood, just like that.” 


PINK SUGAR 


19 

Kirsty laughed. admit it sounds pretty bad—prig¬ 
gish in the extreme; especially when you say it in that 
frozen clear voice of yours. But why should you he so 
shocked ? Surely it is a most laudable intention ?— 
stop eating chocolates (you don’t deserve to have a sound 
tooth in your head), and come and see the house. I shan’t 
spare you a cupboard, and it will be much better for me 
than talking about myself. I’m sick of the subject, any¬ 
way.” 

Blanche rose lazily and looked at herself in the narrow 
gilt mirror above the mantel-shelf. 

Then she turned and took Kirsty’s face between her 
two hands, smiled at her, and said obscurely: 

''Froggy's Litile Brother/' 


Chapter II 




OU see,” Kirsty explained, “the dining-room opens 


X out of the drawing-room. It has another door, 
of course, which you reach by going through the hall and 
down a passage; that’s how we’ll go when we have a dinner¬ 
party (if ever we have one) ; it’s more impressive.” 

She opened the dining-room door as she spoke. 

“And because the other room is such a riot of colour 
I’ve kept this one golden-brown.” 

“Like a beech-wood in autumn,” said Blanche. “The 
other is like a midsummer garden.—^What luck to have 
all this panelling!” She walked to the window and looked 
out. “Why, what’s this stream?” 

“That,” said Kirsty, joining her, “is the Hope Water— 
a very delectable stream.” 

“I daresay, but aren’t you a little too near it? I 
prophesy that some wet morning you will find the Hope 
Water coming in to meet you at breakfast.” 

They went through the wide low-ceilinged hall and up 
the shallow staircase. 

On the first landing Blanche paused. “This is really 
very pretty,” she said approvingly, “the powder-blue car¬ 
pets and the grey walls. By the way, have you electric 
light ?” 

Kirsty smiled at the notion. “Of course not,” she said, 
and sniffed. “Lamps. Can’t you smell them ? I always 


20 


PINK SUGAR 


21 


think paraffin oil is such an innocent smell. It goes with 
dimity and pot-pourri and faded samplers.” 

^‘Idiot! I never heard any one praise the smell of 
paraffin before. But you seem determined to be pleased 
with everything in your country cottage.” 

^‘Please, not so superior,” Kirsty begged. ^This is 
such a queer uneven house. One is always going up a few 
steps or down a few steps. ‘Upstairs and downstairs and 
in my lady’s chamber.’ ” She opened the door of a room 
all white and blue with touches of black. “Mine,” she 
said, looking eagerly at her friend for approval. “I 
swithered between pale grey and orange, and blue and 
white, but I’m glad I decided on this. I do so love blue: 
it’s a happy colour . . . and a bathroom of my own next 
door, made out of a dressing-room—all black-and-white- 
striped like peppermint rock.” 

“How amusing!” Blanche said, sitting down on the 
edge of the bath and looking round. “Black and white 
walls, black and white tiled floor, black and white cur¬ 
tains, and rose-red rugs. This is rather clever of you, 
Kirsty. It would please my friend Joyce Parker. 
(You’ve heard me talk of her?) She has been in India 
for more than twenty years, and looks it, and when she 
was last home she told me a most mournful story of a visit 
she had paid to some people who have a cottage somewhere 
on the Thames. She had a luxurious bathroom for her 
own use, snow-white from floor to ceiling, with a window 
through which the sun streamed, and a cherry-tree in full 
blossom just outside. The cherry-tree was the last straw. 
The poor dear said she had never realised, quite how faded 
and finished she was until that May morning, in that 
white bathroom with the flaunting cherry-tree outside. 
It quite cast a blight upon her visit.” 

“Dear me!” said Kirsty. “I never thought before about 
a becoming bathroom. My cleverness is quite uninten- 


22 pink sugar 

tional, but it is a hint to me to be tactful in details—if 
ever I do entertain.” 

They went into Kirstj’s bedroom and sat down on the 
wide window-seat. 

Kirstj pulled aside the chintz curtains. 

The warm west-looking window-seat/ ” she quoted, 
and pointed over the flower garden and across the park. 
^That, you see, is Phantasy proper. We are actually in 
the grounds. I suppose this is a sort of dower-house.” 

Blanche knelt on the window-seat to look at the grey 
house among the trees. 

^^And who owns the place ? Are they pleasant people ? 
Because if they aren% it won’t be very comfortable for 
you to be so near them, almost in their lap.” 

^^Well,” said Kirsty, ^^there isn’t any ^they.’ I mean 
to say the owner is a single man—Colonel Archibald 
Home.” 

Blanche pretended to conceal an exaggerated yawn. 

^^Oh, what a dull tale your life is going to be! I can 
see the end from the beginning. Of course you will marry 
Colonel Home. What is he like ?” 

Kirsty flicked the cord of the blind impatiently. 

^'Blanche, you really are absurd. Vulgar, too. You’ve 
read so many silly novels on those constant voyages of 
yours to and from India that your mind has gone quite 
mushy. . . . I’ve never seen Colonel Home. He’s prob¬ 
ably seventy, and crippled with gout. I gather that he 
has a pretty bad temper from the way the factor spoke, 
and his desire to make sure that I was a harmless person. 
I told you that I described myself as a spinster without 
encumbrances to satisfy him. I don’t suppose he will 
trouble me, and I certainly shan’t trouble him. I am too 
happy simply to be allowed to live in Little Phantasy.” 
She stopped, and after a moment said rather wistfully, 
You don’t know what all this means to me, you who have 


PINK SUGAR 


23 


always had a home. It’s what I’ve dreamed of all my 
life, a little plain house in an old-fashioned garden near 
running water. . . . Always my life has been full of 
rich things—great purring cars, expensive shops, meals 
with out-of-season dainties, show, glitter. N^ow I want 
the exact opposite. I want life at its simplest: plain 
meals, no smart servants ...” 

Blanche nodded and patted Kirsty’s hand. 

^^I know, and I’m glad your dreams have come true. 
I believe you are one of the people who really love sim¬ 
plicity. ... By the way, what kind of servants have 
you ? That was a stern virgin who waited on us at lunch¬ 
eon.” 

^That was Miss Wotherspoon,” Kirsty said. 

Blanche raised surprised eyebrows. ^‘Mtss Wother- 
spoon ?” 

Kirsty explained. “You must know she isn’t an ordi¬ 
nary parlour-maid. She kept house for her brother, who 
is a minister, until he married, and then she had no home. 
She feels it a dreadful come-down after being mistress of 
a manse to come here as parlour-maid. She stipulated 
that I would call her ‘Miss.’ I feel as guilty, when I see 
her wearing a cap, as if I had branded her as a slave.” 

“Touching, do you find it? No, but seriously, is she 
an educated woman ?” 

“I’m afraid not, poor dear. It was only that her 
brother was clever and educated himself. But Miss 
Wotherspoon feels that her short reign in a manse so 
gentled her condition that she can now afiord to look down 
on Easie Orphoot, decent woman—” 

“Who is that ?” 

“Easie is the cook. She has lost three husbands; at 
least, two died, and one went off to Canada and has sent no 
address. But, as Miss Wotherspoon says (rather bitterly), 
‘it has never ca’ed the down off her,’ meaning that her 


24 


PINK SUGAR 


losses have left her quite calm and cheerful. Easie is 
the most imperturbable creature in a house, large, laugh¬ 
ing, and easy. And we have a young girl called NTellie 
Sym, who is supposed to help both Miss Wotherspoon and 
Easie. Her energy is positively destroying. The way 
she goes panting about her work reminds me always of 
a goods train coming out of a tunnel, and her words come 
out like small explosions, but she is a most willing child. 
I have nothing to complain of.—It sounds a most ridicu¬ 
lous thing to say, but you don’t know how envious I was 
when people I met travelling with Marmeo regaled me 
with tales of their servant-troubles. I actually longed to 
have servant-troubles.” 

^^My dear Kirsty, if any one heard you they would re¬ 
fuse to believe you sane. Servant-troubles are as little 
desired by ordinary mortals as a near view of Jerusalem- 
the-Golden.” 

^^Yes,” said Kirsty, ‘T know Fm daft. I was daft for 
a home, and now that I’ve got it I’m daft with joy. To 
have had no roots all my life—just a weed floating on the 
stream; and now to And myself at home, in Scotland! 
The blind fury that used to fill me when I heard people 
talking lightly about going to Scotland, and making jokes 
about the awful weather they were likely to have—^mere 
English people who should have been thankful for the 
chance of seeing Scotland in any weather! What right 
had they to go to my Scotland at all when I was shut 
out ?” 

Blanche looked at her friend and shook her head. 

^^What a child you are, Kirsty, in spite of your thirty 
years! You make me think of my niece Barbara, Isla’s 
I wrote to you about Isla’s illness and death.” 

Oh, my dear, you did. I was so dreadfully sorry for 
you, but I didn’t like to speak about it first—every one 


PINK SUGAR 25 

takes trouble differently, and I didn’t know whether you 
would want—” 

was glad of the letters you wrote me. No, I don’t 
care to talk about things that come very near to me, except 
to the one or two who understand. There were only the 
two of us, and distance didn’t separate us at all. I can 
hardly bear the thought of India without Isla’s letters. 
But I was with her at the end, that is something to be 
thankful for. . . . She was only thirty-five, and she had 
a lot to leave—three small children and her husband. 
What is to be done with the children I don’t know. If 
only it had been five years later, Tom and I would have 
been settled at home, and only too glad to have them.” 

^^But what about the father ? Doesn’t he want them ?” 

‘^Oh, poor Alan! He is absolutely lost without Isla. 
She mothered him as much as she did the children. He 
is a charming fellow, a most likeable fellow, but he needs 
somebody to lean up against. He will marry again—I 
hope he will marry again—^but one can hardly expect that 
he will find another Isla, and I can’t bear the thought of 
Isla’s children— However, what I was going to say 
was that your passion for Scotland is shared by my niece 
and nephew. Barbara and Specky love Scotland with a 
quite pathetic intensity, and at present they are living in 
Clapham with an old governess of ours who has a house 
on the Common. It is a pleasant, airy place, and they 
are most comfortable, but they regard having to live in 
London as a studied insult.” 

^Dh, poor lambs I” Kirsty cried. know exactly what 
they feel. All those years I was at school at Eastbourne— 
What ages are they ?” 

Blanche thought for a moment. ^^Barbara must be ten, 
and Specky eight; and Bill—Bad Bill—is between five 
and six.” 


26 


PINK SUGAR 


^^Why is he bad V’ Kirsty asked. 

think because he can’t help it. ISTo, I’m not malign¬ 
ing him. He really is rather a terror, old Bill. He passes 
over his sister and brother like a Juggernaut, leaving them 
flattened but furious.” 

Blanche smiled as if at some recollection, and Hirsty 
said, ^'But why have they to live in Clapham ? Where is 
Mr. Crawford?” 

''Oh, he couldn’t endure the house after Isla died. He 
has got rid of it and stored the furniture, and is now pre¬ 
paring to wander about the world indefinitely. You know 
what men are! They fly from trouble, while women sit 
patiently at home learning to bear it, and in Alan Craw¬ 
ford’s case the natural selfishness of man is complicated 
by the artistic temperament. You know he is an artist? 
Ho, not very good, but he has a private income. . . . But 
all this is a great waste of precious time. There are so 
many things I want to know. Tell me, you don’t mean 
to live alone, do you?” 

Kirsty stopped twisting the cord of the blind. 

"Didn’t I tell you? Aunt Panny is coming to me to¬ 
morrow evening—you just miss each other. Ho, I don’t 
suppose you ever did hear of her. She is my father’s 
only sister: unmarried and about sixty-five, I should 
think. I haven’t seen her since I was a child, but I have 
always kept somewhere in the back of my mind a recollec¬ 
tion of something soft and comfortable and soothing that 
was Aunt Fanny. She has let her house for a year, and is 
going to try what living with me is like. I hope she won’t 
be dull. She knits a lot—^white woolly things.” 

"People who knit are never dull,” Blanche said wisely. 
"I’m glad you are to have Aunt Fanny.” She rose to look 
out of the window. "How tell me, please, the lie of the 
land. What hills are those I’m looking at ?” 

Kirsty rose eagerly. "I’ve only just learned their 


PINK SUGAR 


27 


names. Away over there are the hills round Priorsford— 
Cademuir, the Black Meldon, Hundleshope. Now come 
to this window. D’you see that bridge ? That’s where the 
Hope Water meets Tweed. That funny little heathery 
hill is called the Hill o’ Men. That plain-faced one is 
Batchell. Hasn’t it a threadbare look, as if generations 
of school-hoys had slid down it and worn off all the nap? 
I’m going to climb them all some day soon. And now, 
my great treasure”—Kirsty seized her friend’s arm in her 
excitement—^^heyond the bridge, to the right, high on the 
brae, a grey tower—d’you see ? That is Hawkshaw Cas¬ 
tle, and there Mary Queen of Scots once stayed. Did you 
ever know anything so thrilling? It’s like living in a 
ballad. . . . Over the top of the trees you can see the 
chimneys of the village, our village—^Muirburn. Nether- 
ton, the next village, is a very absurd one, because, being 
itself about two miles away, it has its church in Muirburn, 
almost cheek-by-jowl with the other church. It compli¬ 
cates matters very much, for, as Easie puts it, ^They are 
baith one sex.’ Then there is a tiny Episcopal church, 
St. Mark’s, which is worked by the Priorsford rector. So 
you see there is a plethora of kirks.” 

^Which will you go to ?” Blanche asked. 

^^Not to the Episcopal anyway. I have bowed long 
enough in the House of Bimmon. The choice lies between 
Muirburn and Netherton. The latter has a pipe-organ 
and a large and very urbane minister, called the Rev. 
Norman McCandlish, B.D. He and his wife have already 
called. The Muirburn church has only a squeaky har¬ 
monium, and is altogether much less genteel. But the 
minister, a long lean lad called Brand, fought all through 
the War, and he hasn’t called on me, so I think I shall go 
there. Imagine, three ministers and no doctor. They 
seem to expect one to be more soul-sick than body-sick. 
The nearest doctor is at Priorsford, nine miles away.” 


28 


PINK SUGAR 


^^And what about neighbours Blanche asked. 

^^There are some, I think,” Xirsty said vaguely, ^^but I 
haven’t seen any of them yet. After all, we only got into 
the house a fortnight ago: there was so much that needed 
doing. The house is ready for callers now, but I must 
tackle the garden seriously. I’ve great schemes . . 
She gave a long sigh of content. 

About nine-thirty that evening, sitting by the fire in 
the lamp-lit drawing-room, Kirsty broke a silence with: 
^We’ve talked ourselves almost hoarse—there was need, 
when the talk must last us two years!—but there is some¬ 
thing else I want badly to say—and I don’t know how to 
say it.” 

She left her chair and knelt on the hearth-rug before 
her friend. ^T’m so afraid you will think me pushing 
and impertinent. You won’t, will you, Blanche? It’s 
about your sister’s children, Barbara and her brothers. 
The idea leapt into my mind this afternoon, and the more 
I think of it the better I like it. Why should they stay in 
Clapham with strangers all summer when I am here with 
a house and garden that cry aloud for children ? Do you 
know there are bars on the windows in one of the bed¬ 
rooms ?—the one that is called ‘'The Stable,’ because it 
is papered with pictures of horses. Bad Bill would like 
them, I’m sure. It would be better for the children to be 
in the country, and it would make Little Phantasy per¬ 
fect for me. . . . Of course I know you must consult Mr. 
Crawford, but please, please try to get him to give the 
plan his favourable consideration.” 

Mrs. Cunningham at first looked perplexed, then she 
laughed. ''Kirsty, you are sitting there like a wistful 
dog. I expect all your life you will beg humbly for what 
no one else would take as a gift. Who but you would want 
to be bothered by three troublesome children? You 
didn’t think I was hinting, did you ?—for such a thing 


PINK SUGAR 


29 


never entered into mj head. I’m afraid you don’t real¬ 
ize what you are offering. It is all very well to see chil¬ 
dren for an hour when they are at their best; but having 
them planted on you for months is quite another thing. 
They have a good governess—quite a young girl but wise— 
but even so, I’m afraid you’d get very weary of them.” 

Kirsty gave a laugh that was almost a sob. 

‘^Well, all I ask is a chance to weary of them. . . . 
I’ve planned it all, indeed I’ve thought of little else since 
you told me of them. Barbara will have the primrose 
room next to mine, and we’ll have two little beds put into 
the Stable for Specky and Bill. The governess will have 
the pink room. That just fills up the house nicely. Aunt 
Banny, of course, has the only really imposing room, be¬ 
ing Aunt Fanny. . . . Oh, it isn’t fair that I should be 
so happy, and that you, poor Blanche, should have to go 
away out to India at almost the worst time of year. But 
you are going to Tim.” 

‘^And,” said Blanche, “I’ll probably get nothing but 
abuse from Tim for coming. He will be sure to say that 
he is perfectly well, and that I was an idiot to worry.” 

At that moment the door opened and Miss Wotherspoon 
entered, wearing her usual ill-used expression and carry¬ 
ing a kettle. She laid the kettle on the hearth and left 
the room, appearing again with a tray which she put on 
a table beside Kirsty. Then she sighed deeply and said: 

“Easie says Davidson’s forgot the sponge-cakes the day, 
and the cart’ll not be round again till Tuesday.” 

Kirsty glanced at the tray. 

“Oh, well, there’s one for to-night, anyway,” she said 
cheerfully. “Good-night, Miss Wotherspoon. I hope your 
headache is gone.” 

Miss Wotherspoon rocked a little as she stood, making 
her slippers creak dolorously. 

“Ma head’s worse than ever. I don’t suppose I need go 


so 


PINK SUGAR 


to ma bed to-night, for I’ll never sleep a wink. But I’m 
used to suffering. . . . Good-night, Miss Gilmour. Good¬ 
night, Mrs. Cunningham.” 

^^Good-night, Miss Wotherspoon.” 

Kirstj shook her head as the door closed behind the 
gloomy retainer. 

^^She always says she never sleeps. I wonder.” 

She put the kettle on the fire, and measured some tea 
from a little silver tea-caddy into the pot. 

^^Here’s the cup of weak China tea that I know you 
like at night, Blanche. Anything to eat ?” 

^^No, thank you. The tea is delicious. Aren’t you hav¬ 
ing any ?” 

^^This is what I have every night—a glass of hot water 
and a sponge-cake. I began it when I came here, and I 
love it. Priorsford sponge-cakes are divine. I can hardly 
forgive Davidson for forgetting to bring them in his cart 
to-day.” 

She took a bite of sponge-cake and waved her glass at 
Blanche. 

^^You can think of me when you are in the Gorgeous 
East, sitting happily at my own fireside drinking hot 
water and eating sponge-cakes and . . .” 

^^And living for others,” Blanche put in dryly. 

^^Oh, well,” said Kirsty, and was silent for a minute. 

“You needn’t think,” she went on, “that I would con¬ 
sider having the children living for others. It’s pure self¬ 
ishness makes me want them; they would be such a delight 
to me. Blanche, Fm going to he so happyF 

Mrs. Cunningham looked rather sadly at her friend. 

“My dear, I hope so. I do hope so. But I’m afraid 
you think now that you are free and in Scotland that the 
millennium has come. It hasn’t. People can be just as 
selfish and tiresome and ungrateful in Muirburn as in any 
other place. Little Phantasy, charming as it is, won’t be 


PINK SUGAR 


81 


a serpentless Eden. Donft expect too much, and don’t 
try to do too much for people.” 

^^Oh,” groaned Kirsty, ^Vhat depressing advice!” 
Blanche sipped her tea and looked into the fire. 

don’t believe,” she said darkly, ‘^that people like be¬ 
ing lived for.” 


Chapter III 

“A pickle plats an’ paths an’ posies, 

A wheen anld gillyflowers an’ roses; 

A ring o’ wa’s the hale encloses 
Frae sheep or men: 

An’ there the auld honsie beeks an’ dozes 
A by her lane.” 

R. L. 8. 

T he Eev. Robert Brand and bis sister Rebecca sat at 
breakfast in the singularly ugly dining-room of Muir- 
burn Manse. 

Looking round it, Robert Brand told bimself that the 
only pretty things in it were the April sunshine and the 
big blue bowl of kingcups that stood in the middle of the 
table. 

There was certainly no beauty in the worn carpet, the 
horse-hair furniture, the solid Victorian sideboard with 
its burden of salver and fluted biscuit-box grown yellow 
with constant cleaning, or in the black marble clock on 
the shabby black mantel-piece. Except for a Shakespeare 
calendar hung on the bell, the room was almost exactly as 
it had been six and thirty years ago when the Rev. Ebe- 
nezer Brand had been inducted to Muirbum and had 
taken to himseK as wife Lizzie TeKer—and very fine they 
had thought it. 

The stipend of Muirburn was small, and Ebenezer 
Brand, having been entirely without worldly wisdom, had 
married a girl as penniless as himself; but they had strug¬ 
gled along light-heartedly, pinching and scraping to edu¬ 
cate their two children, making jokes about their poverty, 
finding amusement in the fact that the carpets had lost 
all pattern and were ‘dike the road.” They had been 
32 


PINK SUGAR 


SS 


abundantly bappy, and when, after a long illness, his wife 
left him alone, Mr. Brand for six months tried to live 
without her, “liked it not, and died,” and his son Eobert 
reigned in his stead. 

Eebecca sat opposite her brother, facing the windows, 
with the April sun lighting her round red face and mouse- 
coloured hair. She wore a serviceable but unbecoming 
brown woollen jumper, and a most uncompromising ex¬ 
pression. Lizzie Brand had often looked at her daughter 
with a ruefully affectionate smile. Where had she come 
from, this solid, dumpy little person with her practical 
ways, her sledge-hammer common sense, her gift for peel¬ 
ing the gilt from the gingerbread? She was certainly 
utterly unlike either of her parents, who had been dowered 
with good looks, wit, and a pretty fancy, but in whom 
practical talents had been somewhat conspicuously lack- 
ing. 

Eobert was like his father, tall and thin, with a gentle, 
rather long face and a shy manner. This morning he 
wore an old tweed coat and a pair of ancient flannel trou¬ 
sers. It was evident from his extremely clean and well- 
brushed look that he did not belong to the type of clergy¬ 
man who forgoes the morning tub, contenting himself 
with “a nice wash,” and who spends the greater part of 
the day frowsting in dressing-gown and slippers. 

Eebecca was supping porridge with evident enjoyment;^ 

“This porridge is very good,” she said, “though I 
made it myself. Jeanie has never turned up this morn¬ 
ing. I suppose she will say that her mother is ill again, 
but it’s more likely to be the thought of the washing that 
has kept her away.” 

Her brother nodded absently as he carried his porridge 
plate to the sideboard. He took the cup of tea Eebecca 
had poured out for him, and stood meditatively holding it 
in his hand. 


54 


PINK SUGAR 


he said, been thinking we might make some 
changes in the papers we get for the Magazine Club. 
What’s the good of always getting the same ones ? 
Couldn’t we tuke for a change The Times^ Literary Sup¬ 
plement^ and The Spectator or The Outlook?"' 

Rebecca put down her cup with a cluck of impatience. 
‘^Bob, what’s the good of talking like that?—Do go and 
sit down in your place, and not stand about in that lost 
way.—Of course, I know you would prefer literary papers, 
hut for one who could read the sort of papers you like 
thirty get pleasure from the present ones. Can you see 
old Robert Stark, who pores for hours over Chambers's 
Joumal, finding anything to read in The Times' Literary 
Supplement ? What does he care what new hooks are being 
published, or how brilliantly the first article is written? 
And would you deprive Mrs. Stark of the Sunday at 
Homej which she has read every Sunday for goodness 
knows how many years, and offer her The Spectator in¬ 
stead? You’re simply selfish. Bob; that’s what you 
are.” 

Bob sighed. 

Rebecca continued: “And it isn’t as if we were at all 
ill-off for good reading. There’s the library at Priorsford; 
you can bicycle down any day; and you know how good 
the librarian is about saving you Blackwood's and the 
CornhUl, And Merren Strang is always lending you new 
books—” 

“Oh, I know.” Bob took a scone and buttered it slowly. 
Then he said rather shamefacedly, “A paper like the 
Literary Supplement coming always at the end of the 
week is something to look forward to.” 

“Bob, you baby!” Rebecca cried, but her voice softened 
as she said, “Well, I daresay we need something to look 
forward to now as much as when we were children. You 
and I haven’t been exactly smothered with the good things 


PINK SUGAR 


S5 


of this world. I wonder often what it must feel like to 
have money to buy things that aren’t necessary, only 
pretty; to be able to renew a house when everything seems 
to be going done on your hands. And just fancy being 
able to go into a steamboat office and take a ticket to India 
and China! Except for the three years that I went to 
school in Edinburgh I’ve hardly ever been away from 
Muirburn. I’ve just made beds, and swept rooms, and 
polished floors, and washed dishes, and cooked, and at¬ 
tended church services, and taught in the Sunday School, 
and collected, and given out magazines—and now I’m 
thirty-flve.” 

Bob nodded. 

‘‘1 know. You’ve had the worst of it. Bee. All the 
time I was at the War you were having the really hard job 
at home—^watching Mother die. And then Father . . . 
I wish you had an easier life.” 

^^Oh, I don’t know.” Kebecca gave her head an odd 
little seK-conscious jerk, a habit with her when she found 
herself the topic of conversation. ‘^I’ve a lot to be thank¬ 
ful for. I might have had to live in a mining village or 
a dismal big town. If I have to stay always in one place 
I couldn’t And a prettier place than Muirburn, and it was 
nice of the people to elect you in Father’s place. Oh, I 
know you think you ought to have a harder job, but say 
as you like, Bob, you aren’t At for hard work yet. I doubt 
if you ever will be. It will take years anyway before 
you get over the wounds and the gassing. If you insist on 
trying to get a slum church you’ll crock up, that’s all 
you’ll do.” 

^^ut I feel such a slacker,” Bob complained. 

‘Tather was happy here for nearly thirty-flve years,” 
his sister reminded him. 

‘‘Ah, but Father was different.” 

“How ‘different’ ?” 


36 


PINK SUGAR 


said Bob, ^^for one thing he was the very man 
for a country charge. He loved the changes of the sea¬ 
sons: the garden was the delight of his heart; the hills 
were his friends; what is it Wordsworth says?—‘The 
sounding cataract haunted him like a passion.’ And then 
he could occupy his spare time with writing—it wasn’t 
remunerative work, but it gave him pleasure. And you 
must remember that he and my mother were bound up 
in each other, and the purpose of both their lives was 
fulfilled in the mere fact of being together. That was 
wonderful and beautiful.” 

“And very uncommon,” Kehecca said, pouring herself 
out a second cup of tea with a brisk air. 

Her brother cast an amused glance at her, but only said, 
“Well, as you say, there are worse places than Muirburn, 
and after all we never know what a day may bring forth. 
Any morning the postman may hand to us a letter that 
will change the whole course of our existence.” 

“He passed yesterday without calling,” said Eebecca. 

Even as she spoke the latch of the garden-gate clicked, 
and the postman was seen wheeling his red bicycle along 
the winding narrow drive, brushed by the tassels of the 
flowering currant, and shaded by the laburnums, green 
still, and waiting for their golden days. 

Eebecca sped to the door and came back with a 
letter. 

“For me,” she said breathlessly. “Eob, it’s from Lon¬ 
don, and it’s good paper.” 

Bob sat with a piece of bread and butter half way to 
his mouth while his sister opened it, but in a second she 
let it fall on the table with a “Tuts” of disgust. 

"" 'Special offer of Worcester Corsets!' They oughtn’t 
to be allowed to send such alluring-looking letters as ad¬ 
vertisements. I’m positively shaking with excitement.” 

Eobert laughed, and ate his bread and butter. 


PINK SUGAR 


37 


^Toor old Bee! NTever mind, some day it will come.” 

Rebecca returned to her seat behind the breakfast-tray, 
shaking her head dejectedly. 

^^ISTot in Muirburn. ISTothing ever happens in Muirburn. 
The primroses and daffodils come up and flower; then the 
lupins and the Canterbury bells and the columbine and the 
roses; then the autumn flowers; then whirling winds and 
winter again. That’s all. The people are always the 
same—more or less. Children grow up, and the middle- 
aged ones get old and deaf and blind, and now and again 
one is carried round the corner to the churchyard, and 
there is generally a new baby somewhere . . 

^^Dear me, Rebecca, when you babble of flowers things 
are pretty bad. But something has happened at Muirburn 
now. Colonel Home has come back to live at Phantasy, 
and Little Phantasy is let for the first time in the memory 
of man. . . . D’you remember. Bee, what a hero we 
made of Colonel Home when we were little 

Rebecca nodded, and her brother went on: 

‘^To us he was no ordinary mortal, he was a knight 
straight out a fairy tale—the young laird of Phantasy. I 
suppose he would be about sixteen when I was six. I 
know he seemed to be larger than human—tall and straight 
and blue-eyed. I was convinced that he wore shining suits 
of mail in his more exalted moments. We used to haunt 
the gates of Phantasy on the chance of seeing him. There 
was romance in the very way the heavy gates creaked, and 
the stone bears seemed to me to guard some fairy pleas- 
ance. Sometimes—^you remember?—he gave us sweeties 
and a pat on the head, and we almost expired under such 
a weight of honour. I hate to think of him as middle- 
aged and maimed and rather poor, such a shining figure 
as he was to us.” 

Rebecca sat looking at the bread she was crumbling on 
her plate. 


38 


PINK SUGAR 


^^Yes,” she said, after a minute, ‘^and I hate most to 
think of him having to let Little Phantasy. The Homes 
always kept themselves apart, and to have to admit stran¬ 
gers within their very gates must be galling. And if it 
had been taken by a sensible couple who would have been 
company for him—this Miss Gilmour is just a girl, I 
don’t believe she is more than five-and-twenty, and—’’ 

^'Have you seen her Robert asked with interest. 

^^Yes, she was in Mrs. Hickson’s shop on Saturday when 
I went in. I forgot to tell you. Pretty ? Oh, yes, I sup¬ 
pose you would call her very pretty, and beautifully 
dressed. Such suitable clothes. A knitted green dress 
and hat, and hand-knitted grey silk stockings, and grey 
suede brogues, and long grey gloves. She had a big basket 
on her arm as if she were playing at house-keeping, and 
she has that silly, English way of going on in a shop. 
You know—'How, suppose I take this and this—’ Mrs. 
Hickson, under the impression that her advice was being 
asked, got quite coy and kept saying, 'Oh, I’m sure I 
don’t know. It’s for you to say—’ But she seems a 
friendly sort of girl. She looked at me as though she 
would like to speak, but I kept well back among the onions 
and the paraffin barrels. When she went out Mrs. Hick¬ 
son was full of her; I could hardly get out of the shop. 
She asked if we had called yet (knowing full well we 
hadn’t!) and added, rather rebukingly, that Mr. M’Cand- 
lish had called at once. Poor Mrs. Hickson! She is very 
anxious that we should lure this wealthy new-comer to the 
church. As if we had any charge against Netherton with 
its organ and its genteel society!” 

"I don’t see why you should say that,” Rob complained. 
Ours is a pretty little church, and I don’t see anything 
wrong with the harmonium. I don’t say I’m much of a 
preacher, but I’m no worse than M’Candlish.” 

Rebecca smiled pityingly at her brother. 


PINK SUGAR 


39 


dear,” she said, ^^you are a much better preacher 
than Mr. M’Candlish (though Mrs. Stark complains that 
you stop much too suddenly, ^like a cairt cowpin’) but 
you can never hope to compete with him, he has such 
affable teeth. I expect his smile and his jovial manner 
have already made a deep impression on Miss Gilmour, 
and she will obediently stumble into his fold—^unless, as 
is most likely, she is an Episcopalian.” 

‘^Oh, well.” Robert Brand shrugged his shoulders, and 
having finished his breakfast got up to go to his study. 
He stopped at the door. 

^^By the way, I forgot to tell you that I met Lady Car- 
ruthers yesterday, and she told me a long story about 
some scheme she is involved in, something Russian, I gath¬ 
ered, but not the Famine. Anyway, she ended by asking 
me to subscribe. I suppose we must ?” 

Rebecca, who had begun to collect the breakfast-dishes, 
stopped with a porridge plate in her hand, and said in 
tones of concentrated fury, ^'That woman! What imbecile 
scheme has she got into her head now ? Probably to send 
gramophones to soothe the savage breasts of the Bolshe¬ 
vists!—We can’t give less than one pound. Oh, it’s too 
bad. Bob. It will have to come off what I had saved up 
for your new suit. That’s the worst of being poor, you 
can’t refuse. Rich people would refuse without a thought, 
or give her five shillings and tell her to go away, but we 
can’t.” 

^^ever mind. Bee. My suit isn’t so very green, and, 
anyway, who cares ?” 

“And we need coals,” Rebecca went on. “I thought 
I could make them last till May, but they won’t, and coals 
are such a ransom here. But I don’t grudge the coals as 
I grudge one pound to Lady Carruthers. . . . The last 
time she came I had been spring-cleaning and starching 
curtains till my hands were stiff, and she sat there wasting 


40 


PINK SUGAR 


mj time, and then had the impertinence to tell me that 
what I needed was to get on to the Higher Plane.” 

Robert sat down on the arm of the sofa and laughed 
aloud, while Rebecca with a circular swoop collected the 
butter, the marmalade, and a plate of scones. 

“Stop laughing, Rob. There’s little to laugh at. This 
week’s begun badly with that woman and coals, and a big 
washing and Jeanie not turning up. I’d better just set 
on the boiler fire and start myself. Rob, I do try to be 
as saving as I can, but what’s the good of saving? If I 
could only make some money! To think of Merren Strang 
being able to make money by writing! I’m sure you might 
try, Rob. You’re almost sure to have inherited it from 
Rather, and—” 

Rob laughed again and said, “ ^Treason is not inherited, 
my lord,’ nor I fear is the art of writing. Besides, I don’t 
remember that Father ever made any money to speak of.” 

“Oh, no,” Rebecca said hopelessly, “we’re not the kind 
of people that ever could make money.” 

She went over to the fireplace to pull the daily leaf off 
the calendar. 

“This is Holy Week,” she announced. “St. Mark’s 
people will be busy. There won’t be an arum-lily left in 
the district when they’ve done decorating that little church 
of theirs. I wonder who makes up these calendars.” She 
tweaked off the leaf impatiently. “They have the most 
inappropriate quotations. For weeks I’ve had nothing 
but remarks about kings—^Comets usher forth the death 
of kings,’ and such like, things that can interest no one 
but the Royal Family.” 

“What’s the one for to-day ?” Robert asked. 

His sister held it out to him with a twinkle in her small 
grey eyes. 

“ ^Sweet are the uses of adversity,’ ” she repeated, and 
the brother and sister laughed together before separating 
to their several duties. 


Chapter IV 

“She is an excellent sweet lady; . . . and out of 
all suspicion she is virtuous.” 

Much Ado About Nothing. 

I F life had been pursuing its usual comfortable course 
with Miss Fanny Gilmour when her niece’s letter ar¬ 
rived asking her to make her borne at Little Phantasy, it 
is doubtful whether she would ever have considered the 
proposal for a moment. 

For thirty years—since the death of her parents—she 
had lived placidly in her own house, Harelaw Lodge, in 
Harelaw village, tended by a cook who had been in the 
Gilmour family for nearly fifty years, a housemaid who 
had been almost as long, a parlour-maid who was regarded 
as quite juvenile at forty-five, and a groom-gardener who 
was a teetotaller, a non-smoker, and an elder in the church. 
Thus buttressed and supported. Miss Fanny had listened 
calmly to the tales people brought to her about their do¬ 
mestic trials, thanking kind heaven for her own blessed 
state. 

But a sudden and swift decay fell on the household at the 
Lodge. Janet, the cook, took infiuenza and died; Mary, 
the housemaid, was seized with neuritis, and retired on 
a pension; Agnes, the parlour-maid, went to keep house 
for an uncle who had money to leave; and James Smith, 
the groom-gardener, surprised and disgusted his mistress 
by marrying at the age of fifty-two a girl of one-and- 
twenty, and sailing for Canada. 

^Tf the foundations be destroyed, what shall the 
righteous do 

Miss Fanny, terrified by the tales she read daily in the 
41 


42 


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newspapers, dared not engage new servants, who would 
probably give faked references and decamp in the middle 
of the night with all her valuables. Confused and fright¬ 
ened as a lost lamb, she could only shut up her once so 
safe and comfortable house and fly for refuge to a fash¬ 
ionable hydropathic. 

It was in this unhomely place, surrounded by strangers 
loud in voice and manner (they might almost have spoken 
a different language, so alien did they seem to the gentle 
old lady), stranded and lonely, that Kirsty’s letter reached 
her. Ho wonder that the thought of Little Phantasy and 
a home with her own niece, Andrew’s girl, seemed safe 
and sweet—a haven, she called it to herself. 

Miss Fanny had now been a week in her haven, and 
sitting this afternoon by a bright Are (the April wind was 
cold), knitting one fleecy white shawl and wrapped in 
several others, she smiled happily to herself. She was 
really a very contented woman. Given a comfortable 
chair well out of draughts, a bright fire, good regular meals, 
plenty of light but pure literature for week-days and the 
life of a missionary or philanthropist for the Sabbath, 
she asked little more of life. All these she had found at 
Little Phantasy. 

For the rest, she thought her niece a bright creature, if 
somewhat given to rash speaking, her bedroom looked 
south and was the largest in the house, the cook seemed 
to be capable and amiable, and Miss Wotherspoon was a 
superior sort of woman with sound ideas about church at¬ 
tendance and the keeping of the Sabbath. 

Miss Fanny was now sixty-five, and had, on the whole, 
enjoyed her life very much. She had a horror of clever 
books, so she had never had her feelings harrowed by 
reading of the ^ffrustrated” lives of spinsters, and had no 
idea that she ought to be miserable. She had never even 
heard of Freud. The only thing that troubled her about 


PINK SUGAR 


49 


life was the thought of having to leave it. Death was a 
fact that she could not reconcile herself to: ^^a step in the 
Dark,” she called it sadly. She knew well that this fear 
was very unbecoming in a professing Christian, and she 
strove hard to overcome it by reading many hymns and 
comforting booklets. She was reading one now, a little 
white and gold thing called Gleams from the City. 

Kirsty had come in with her hands full of flowers, and 
was chattering gaily while she arranged them. 

She was very pretty. Miss Fanny thought, this niece of 
hers, pleasant to look at and to listen to. Miss Fanny 
was not paying much attention to what she was saying 
nor was she paying much attention to the good words in 
the little book; she was knitting mechanically, and think¬ 
ing that tea would soon be coming in, and vaguely hoping 
that Easie had baked some of her delicious currant scones. 
If it had been Harelaw some one would probably have 
dropped in to tea; she missed her friends dropping in, but 
one can’t have everything. 

^^Muirbum people are in no great hurry to call on new¬ 
comers,” Kirsty said suddenly, as if she had read her 
aunt’s thoughts. ‘^So far no one has called but one minis¬ 
ter and his one wife. Perhaps this isn’t a sociable neigh¬ 
bourhood. I’m sure I shan’t mind. When the children 
come I shan’t have time to give a thought to neighbours.” 

The children! Miss Fanny had forgotten about the 
menace which hung over the peace and comfort of Little 
Phantasy. To her the thought of three wild creatures let 
loose in the quiet household brought no rapture. Of 
course it was sad that they had lost their mother. The 
father, Kirsty had told her, was going to travel and get 
over his grief; surely it would have been better if he had 
stayed at home and looked after his children, rather than 
fling them in this haphazard way into the arms of a stran¬ 
ger, while he fled to far seas to seek consolation. 


44 


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She was musing thus when Kirsty, her eyes on the out¬ 
side world, cried: man coming down the drive—a 

caller. Who can it be and in a minute Miss Wother- 
spoon answered the question hy announcing in the tone 
of one breaking news of the worst kind—^^Colonel Home.” 

It may be said at once that Colonel Home was not there 
without great effort. He knew that he must call some time 
or other on his new tenant, but the disagreeable duty had 
been put off from day to day. To tell the truth, he had 
been something less than pleased when his factor had 
broken to him the fact that Little Phantasy was let to a 
single woman who, when seen in the flesh, turned out to 
be quite young and exceedingly pretty, and he had re¬ 
solved to shun her like the plague. He would call once— 
courtesy demanded it; he would ask her if the house were 
to her liking, and tell her to see the factor about anything 
she wanted; he would send her some game occasionally. 
What more could be expected from a morose bachelor 
landlord ? 

Kirsty by this time knew that Colonel Home was not, 
as she had assured Blanche Cunningham, ^^seventy and 
crippled by gout.” She had made friends with some of 
the village people, and had heard here and there a signifi¬ 
cant sentence which had given her a fairly accurate idea 
of her landlord. She thought it only too probable that as 
tenant of Little Phantasy he regarded her with deep dis¬ 
taste, and a demure smile turned up the comers of her 
mouth as she rose to greet him. 

Miss Panny sincerely admired her niece that afternoon. 
She herself belonged to a type that simpered before men 
when they were affable, and sat in frightened silence when 
they were difficult. Colonel Home, haggard and rather 
grim, barking out abrupt sentences, and disagreeing at 
every point where disagreement was possible, was certainly 


PINK SUGAR 


45 


no lady’s man, and made Miss Fanny draw her shawls 
nervously round her for protection. 

But Kirsty made the tea, talking and laughing in the 
easiest way. She was, her aunt noticed, a most adroit 
hostess. Many subjects were discussed in the way stran¬ 
gers casually discuss subjects over the teacups, epoch-mak¬ 
ing events were passed over with a word, and whenever 
the visitor appeared to be going to get fractious Kirsty 
glided serenely to something else. 

^^Quite a woman of the world,” said Miss Fanny to 
herself. 

Only once did she feel uncomfortable. The talk had 
turned on the manners of modem youth, which Colonel 
Home considered deplorable. 

^^Yes,” said Kirsty musingly, the sunlight bright on 
her hair, both hands clasped round one knee. ^^Yes, I 
suppose they are deplorable, terribly off-hand and casual. 
And such meaningless slang! And yet,” she turned grave 
green eyes on the vistor, ^Vhen the modern youth makes 
love in his meaningless slang, don’t you think it means 
as much to him and to the girl as the most florid declara¬ 
tion or the most delicate languishments ? ‘Old bean’ is 
perhaps what his lips say, but his heart is singing, ^Thou 
art all fair, my beloved; thou art all fair; thou hast dove^s 
eyes/ 

To quote the Song of Solomon to a gentleman! It 
seemed to Miss Fanny the height of indelicacy. She 
made up her mind to speak to Kirsty about it, and also 
about hugging her knee in that unladylike way. It all 
came, she was afraid, from roving about the world with a 
flighty stepmother. 

She was glad when the conversation was interrupted 
by the entrance of Miss Wotherspoon with a telegram 
which she handed to Kirsty. 


46 


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Telegrams were almost as alarming as bombs to Miss 
Tanny, she trembled like an aspen when she bad to open 
one, and she noted with amazement the careless way 
Kirsty glanced at the contents of this one. 

^Trom Mr. Crawford/^ she said. ^^He suggests com¬ 
ing here to-morrow to talk over the plans about the chil¬ 
dren.” 

She looked at her landlord; then she addressed her 
aunt. 

^^Do you think, Aunt Fanny, that this is an auspicious 
moment to break it to Colonel Home about the children ?” 

Miss Fanny gave a scared look at the visitor and re¬ 
treated without a word into her shawls. 

Kirsty bent forward earnestly. 

not sure that IVe played fair with you. Colonel 
Home. When I took the house I told the factor I was 
a spinster, and I’m afraid he let me have it because I 
sounded a quiet tenant. But things have changed.—NTo, 
don’t look so startled, I only mean that I’ve offered to take 
charge of three children for the summer. Would it bore 
you to hear about it? Their mother died some months 
ago—she was the sister of a great friend of mine—and 
the poor lambs are boarded in Clapham because there are 
no relations in this country to take them-” 

^What about their father ?” Colonel Home asked. 
^Tsn’t he alive?” 

^^Oh, yes,” said Miss Fanny, suddenly emerging from 
her shawls. 

^^He’s alive,” said Kirsty, “but very broken, you know. 
So he is going away to travel or take a voyage or some¬ 
thing-” 

As her landlord made no comment she went on: 

“Perhaps I ought to have asked your permission, but 
I was so fearfully keen to get them. It isn’t quite fixed 
yet, but this is a wire from Mr. Crawford (that’s the 




PINK SUGAR 


47 


father) saying he will come here to-morrow and talk it 
over. I think he leaves England next week.” 

“Does he?” said Colonel Home drily. 

“So—^you don’t really object to children being here, 
do you ?” 

“As to that, I don’t suppose they’ll bother me, but 
keep them out of the woods, please, or there will be rows 
with the keepers.” 

“Oh, yes,” Kirsty promised blithely. “Out of the 
woods in case of traps, and out of the Hope Water in case 
of drowning—you and I will be kept busy. Aunt Fanny.” 

Miss Fanny sighed resignedly, and Colonel Home said: 

^^As a matter of fact I don’t think there has ever been 
a lot of children at Phantasy. I was an only child, my 
father was an only child, and so on—away back. But I 
should think it would be quite a good place for children. 
I know I was very happy, only child as I was.” 

“Oh, I’m not afraid of them not being able to amuse 
themselves,” Kirsty assured him. “They are country 
children, and I should think the joy of being in Scotland 
and away from London would be almost enough for them. 
And then there is this jolly garden, and the water, and 
the donkey. Are there any children round about they 
could play with ?” 

Colonel Home thought for a moment. “I don’t be¬ 
lieve there are,” he said at last; “it’s a very middle-aged 
neighbourhood. I’m afraid. Miss Gilmour, you’ve let 
yourself in for an uncommonly dull time here.” 

“That’s what I want,” said Kirsty, and, seeing his in¬ 
credulous look, she added: “Ho, I’m not posing. I’ve 
always lived among a great many people in so-called gay 
places, and I want to see what a really quiet country life 
is like. So far I haven’t seen any of the inhabitants of 
Muirburn except the Rev. NTorman M’Candlish.” 

“You’ve seen him, have you?” said Colonel Home. 


48 


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Kirsty waited for further comment, and when none 
seemed to be forthcoming, continued: ‘Who else is there 
to see?” 

Colonel Home stared at the fire and appeared to be 
thinking deeply. 

“There^s young Brand,” he said, “the other minister, 
and his sister. They’ve been here all their lives, for their 
father was minister of Muirburn. And the Anthony 
Hays at Cherry trees. What? Yes, it’s a nice name for 
a place. . . . And some people bought Edmonston Hall 
some time ago—Carruthers is the name, the man was 
knighted in the War; they roll in money. I’ve never 
seen them. . . . And that^s about all the people around 
Muirburn that are ever at home, except of course Mrs. 
Strang at Hopewaterfoot. She’s a connection of mine 
through my mother. Her boy was in my battalion. He 
was killed. Her husband was killed in the Boer War. 
She writes books.” 

“Oh!” cried Kirsty. “This is interesting! Do you 
hear. Aunt Fanny? Some one who writes books living 
quite near. What kind of books does she write ? Hovels ?” 

“I believe so.” Colonel Home rose to his feet in a 
determined manner as if to indicate that nothing more 
was to be got out of him. As a matter of fact, he felt 
very satisfied with his visit. He had stayed nearly an 
hour, and it had not been as bad as he had expected. His 
tenant seemed quite an intelligent young woman, and, as 
far as he could judge, would not be likely to obtrude 
herself on his time or attention. He liked the frightened 
lady in the fleecy shawls, and altogether it might have 
been much worse. So he limped through the garden, 
basking in the peace that the doing of a disagreeable duty 
brings. 

Kirsty looked after him rather sadly. 

“So that’s your landlord, Kirsty,” said Miss Fanny. 


PINK SUGAR 


49 


‘^Poor soul,” said Kirsty. 

Miss Fanny looked rather shocked. course he’s 

lame,” she said, ^^but still-” 

^^That’s the least of it,” Kirsty said. 

When Miss Fanny failed to understand she asked no 
questions hut turned her thoughts to something else. She 
now mused on the coming of Mr. Crawford, and asked 
suddenly: 

‘Will he stay the night?” 

“Who ? Colonel Home ?” 

“Oh, no, Mr. Crawford. Didn’t you say he was coming 
to-morrow ?” 

“Yes, I expect he will stay the night. I must remem¬ 
ber to tell Miss Wotherspoon to get a room ready. We 
must put our best foot forward, and send him away with 
a good impression of Little Phantasy. It’s lucky you 
are here to give the place an air of respectability. Colonel 
Home looked quite reassured when he saw you.” 

“Perhaps,” said Miss Fanny, as she took up her knit¬ 
ting, “hut I would have enjoyed Easie’s scones better 
without him. He’s not what I call a pleasant man.” 



Chapter V 

“There’s nothing so queer in this world as folk.” 

An Old Wife’s Tale. 

M e. CEAWFOED arrived the next day in time for 
luncheon. 

Easie in the kitchen, resting after her labours in cook¬ 
ing and dishing an excellent meal, asked Miss Wother- 
spoon if the guest had seemed to enjoy it. 

“ ’Deed did he,” was the reply she got. 

^Weel, we’re getting on,” said Easie. ^The Laird yes¬ 
terday, and Mr. Crawford the day! It’s hertsome, and 
Miss Kirsty’s a braw lass.” 

Miss Wotherspoon drew down her long upper lip as 
she laid a dish of custard on the table. 

^^Some folks’ minds are aye running on the one sub¬ 
ject,” she observed acidly. 

Easie was unabashed. 

^^This yin lost his wife no lang syne,” she said cheer- 
fully. 

Miss Wotherspoon sniffed. ^We wadna think it to look 
at him. He’s as brisk as a bee. How the Laird might 
have lost half a dozen by the look of him.” 

^^Oh, ay, he’s a soor-lookin’ cratur,” said Easie. ^^But 
a body canna be aye mournin’. We’ve got to bear our 
troubles and keep a bright face.” 

^^Ay, and it’s weel kent that to some folk losing a 
husband is no worse than a dinnle on the elbow,” Miss 
Wotherspoon observed drily. 

Miss Wotherspoon was consistently provocative, but 
Easie refused to fight. How she only gave a fat good- 
natured laugh and said: 


50 


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51 


‘Weel, cVa’ and get yer denner. Nellie^s been waitin^ 
on us for the last ten minutes-” 

Miss Fanny was delighted with Mr. Crawford. He 
was exactly the kind of man she liked. He picked up 
her ball of wool and sat down beside her, and in a few 
minutes she was telling him all about Harelaw—the com¬ 
fort of it, the central heating, the way the windows fitted, 
the never-failing supply of hot water. Of Janet the cook 
she told him, and her sudden call; of Mary the house¬ 
maid and her neuritis; of the unexpected worldly-minded¬ 
ness of Agnes the parlour-maid; of the disappointing 
lapse from sanity of James Smith, the groom-gardener. 
It was long since Miss Fanny had found such a good 
listener. 

^What a doctor he would have made,” she thought 
regretfully, “or what a minister!” 

There was certainly something very engaging about 
Alan Crawford. He had such a kind, interested way of 
talking to every one. He deserved to be popular, for he 
had the gift of being able to say nice things that were 
also true; he had the knack of finding some attractive 
trait in unattractive people and bringing it into notice. 
And he was exceedingly good to look at. 

It was astonishing how quickly he made himself at 
home at Little Phantasy. He was hardly in the house 
when he was walking about exclaiming over this treasure 
and that. He noticed at once all the things Kirsty was 
most proud of and complimented her upon her taste. 
Hever was there a more appreciative guest. 

In half an hour Kirsty and her aunt felt as if they 
had known him all their lives. Before luncheon was 
over he was chaffing Miss Fanny about the number of 
her shawls, and that timid spinster was bridling like a 
Victorian maid. 

When Miss Fanny settled herself by the fire to rest, 



52 


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Kirstj took her guest to explore the gardens. If he had 
been delighted with the house, his enthusiasm about the 
surroundings was ecstasy. 

^^Tell me the names of the hills,” he said, ^^so that I can 
say them over to myself when I’m at the other end of 
world. That noble fellow is Cardon, didn’t you say?” 

So Kirsty, nothing loth, named over the heights that 
guarded Priorsford—Cademuir, Hundleshope, the Black 
Meldon. 

^^And those are our own Muirburn hills—^Eatchell, so 
bare and rubbed-looking, and Treherna leaning against 
it, and Hill o’ Men, and big, hump-backed, solemn Car¬ 
don. There’s a rhyme an old woman said to me about 
the hills. I wonder if I can remember it ? It’s some¬ 
thing like this: 

“ ^Bonnington lakes and Crookston cakes, 

Cademuir and the Wrae; 

Hungry, hungry Hundleshope, 

An’ scawed Bell’s Brae.’ 

And there’s another about the farms round here: 

“Hlenkirk an’ Glencotho, 

The Mains o’ Kilbucho, 

Blendewing an’ the Raw, 

Mitchell-hill an’ the Shaw, 

There’s a hole abune Thriepland wud baud them a’.’ ” 

Kirsty said her rhymes with triumph, and Alan Craw¬ 
ford was delighted. 

^Holly they sound, these place-names. Pictish, some 
of them. They remain while the generations crawl about 
a little and are gone. I say, this is a jolly stream—^what 
d’youcallit? The Hope Water. That’s jolly too. Won’t 
Specky be out of his mind with delight when he sees it ? 
He’ll want to fish all day. Miss Gilmour. You never 


PINK SUGAR 


53 


saw such a patient little chap. He never gives up, no 
matter how little success he meets with.” 

want to ask,” said Kirstj, ^ Vhy you call him Specky. 
Surely that isn’t his christened name?” 

^^Ho.” Mr. Crawford laughed. ^^His christened name 
is John Mongtomery, hut when he was quite small he 
developed astigmatism in one eye and they made him 
wear spectacles, and he called himself Specky. He won’t 
have to wear them when he grows up, that’s one blessing, 
but they’ve ruined his looks as a child—and he’s a good- 
looking little chap.” 

It appeared that Kirsty need have had no apprehension 
about Mr. Crawford not allowing his children to come 
to Little Phantasy. Prom the first he seemed to take it 
for granted that the thing was settled. 

Kirsty found him quite surprisingly expansive. He 
told her much about the children, more about himself, 
and a good deal about his wife, whom he called ^^my 
poor girl.” Kirsty was not at all sure that had she died 
and left a husband she would have liked him to allude 
to her as ^^my poor girl.” 

Anyway,” she thought, ^fit’s better than the fat man 
I sat next to at meals on the Caledonia, who talked of 
%y late wife.’ But I’m sure the best thing is not to 
talk at all, just think.” 

They decided together where would be the best spot to 
erect a swing, and what hours the children should spend 
over lessons, and Kirsty said she was sure Mr. Crawford 
would like to see the rooms prepared for them. 

They went first to the Stable, complete now with two 
little white beds with gay counterpanes. 

^This is where the boys will sleep,” Kirsty said. ^^You 
see they look out on Katchell Hill.” 

^^Bill will want to climb that,” said Bill’s father. “He 
always wants to see over the other side.” He walked over 


54 


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to the window and stood for a minute. ^They’ll fall 
asleep to the sound of the Hope Water.—I haven^t tried 
to thank you, Miss Gilmour. There is nothing I can 
say; your kindness is beyond words. Only—if you knew 
what it means to me to think of them here . . 

^‘Dear sir,” said Kirsty, ^‘it is I who ought to say thank 
you. If you knew what it means to me, the thought of 
having children in the house! All I ask is that you will 
spare them to me as long as you can. ... How I’ll show 
you Barbara’s room. You see they are all quite near 
each other and near the governess. . . . Oh, I do hope 
they will be happy.” 

^^They are lucky little beggars. I shall envy them 
many a time. . . . Would it be too much to ask you to 
write to me sometimes and give me news of them ? Miss 
Carter always sends me bulletins about their health and 
behaviour, and Barbara writes quite a decent letter, but 
I would like to hear your account of them. You will ? 
I say, that is good of you. I wonder what you will make 
of old Bill ? Barbara and Specky are naturally quite 
gentle and amenable to reason, but Bill can be a holy 
terror when he likes.” 

^Toor Bad Bill,” said Kirsty. 

^ Two days later Kirsty began a letter to Blanche Cun¬ 
ningham : 

. I have waited to write till I could collect some 
news, for I know that you would consider details about 
my gardening (my daily occupation) merely dull. How 
I can tell you about Aunt Fanny, give my first impres¬ 
sions of my landlord, and describe to you the visit of your 
brother-in-law, Mr. Alan Crawford. 

''First, Aunt Fanny. Blanche, she’s a dear. If I 
could have had my pick of a world of elderly aunts I am 
sure I would have chosen her. She might be described 


PINK SUGAR 


55 


as a perfect specimen in the aunt world. (I am re¬ 
membering how when we were once buying rugs the man 
said as he fondly stroked a choice one, assure you, 
madam, in the rug world we consider this an almost 
perfect piece.’ What a delicious place a rug world 
must be, so soft and warm and cosy!) But to continue, 
Aunt Fanny is the sort of person that makes a room look 
comfortable. Only a few people have the gift. I don’t 
in the least know how it is done, but I have known people 
who could sit in a railway waiting-room or an hotel 
drawing-room, and by the mere fact of their presence 
make the place look home-like; haven’t you ? It has some¬ 
thing to do with being elderly and rather fat and fond 
of knitting. I thought the drawing-room at Little Phan¬ 
tasy nearly perfect (you know how you laughed at my 
pride in it!), but you can’t imagine what a difference 
it is to go into it now and find a pretty, pink-cheeked old 
lady in a striped grey silk dress and layers of white 
shawls—if she wears so many in spring, in winter she will 
be more like some round woolly animal than an aunt— 
sitting in the big armchair with the fiugs,’ a small table 
beside her with a collection of tortiseshell spectacles, for 
she continually loses them, a bottle of smelling-salts in 
case she feels faint (she is perfectly healthy), and a pile 
of small religious books which she reads diligently. She 
also keeps a pile of story-books beside her. She is very 
particular about her fiction, and in these days it is diffi¬ 
cult to supply her with the sort of book she likes. To 
begin with, it must be ffiice,’ that is to say, it mustn’t 
discuss any unsavoury subject; it must of course end 
well, for Aunt Fanny is easily depressed; but it must also 
begin well, for she cannot endure those modem books 
which launch the reader into unknown seas, without chart 
or compass. She likes the sort of book that begins: ^The 
Surbiton family sat together in the drawing-room of The 


56 


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Laurels one stormy December night. Mrs. Surbiton, a 
stout, sweet-faced woman of about sixty summers, chatted 
pleasantly with her husband, a well-preserved man of 
seventy. Janetta, the eldest daughter, sat at the piano 
. . .’ and so on and so on. 

^^Then she knows where she is, and can keep a firm 
grip of the characters until they are all married or dead. 

^^She likes me to read the books that she is reading, so 
that we can compare notes. At present we have left this 
restless age, and have taken a long step backwards into 
The Wide Wide World. It was in a box of childish be¬ 
longings of my own that I have always clung to. I had 
forgotten how exciting it is. D’you remember when Miss 
Fortune dyed all Ellen’s white stockings a dirty grey? 
And, oh! the delicious priggishness of Mr. John! 

‘L do enjoy these evenings. There is something so 
restful about the way Aunt Fanny’s conversation flows on, 
and you would laugh to see us discuss together glasses of 
hot water and Priorsford sponge-cakes at nine-thirty of 
the clock! 

‘^She is funny—Aunt Fanny, I mean. On the prin¬ 
ciple that what the eyes do not see the heart does not 
grieve over she refuses to hear of, or think of, or read of 
anything sad or terrible. A picture of starving children 
she passes over with, ^Yes, dear, but we’ll hope it isn’t 
true.’ And when I tell her something in the papers that 
has shocked me she says, ^Try not to think about it.’ 
It is certainly one way of getting comfortably through 
the world. I’m afraid I worry her a good deal. It is 
odd that I, who have always been considered by myself 
(and by you) the dowdiest and dullest of Victorians, am 
now regarded as quite dashingly Georgian. She posi¬ 
tively shrinks into her shawls at my indelicate remarks. 

^Well, this has been a red-letter week in our lives—our 
landlord has been to call! 


PINK SUGAR 


57 


isn’t as old as I thonght he was—a little over forty, 
perhaps, rather handsome in a gaunt way, with fierce 
blue eyes. He is the very angriest man I ever came 
across. There is hardly one thing happening on the face 
of this globe that doesn’t simply infuriate him. I think 
he is one of those people who care almost too passionately 
for their country, and who are bound to suffer when they 
see things ambling placidly to the dogs. He has been a 
soldier all his life, and has been pretty nearly all over 
the place, and the British Empire stands to him before 
everything. For all the world he is like BlacTcwood/s 
Magazine walking about on two feet: alas, no, only on 
one foot; he was terribly wounded in the War. I think 
most of his friends are gone, and he rather wonders why 
he remains behind; for him Wthing is left remarkable 
beneath the visiting moon.’ I know you object to me 
finding people Touching,’ but I did feel heart-sorry for 
Colonel Home. 

^^Talking of my habit of finding pathos in things, I 
came across a sentence in one of Alice Meynell’s essays 
which you will enjoy. She objects strongly to some fugi¬ 
tive writer’ saying that he found pathos in Christopher 
Sly, and finishes, ^And Lepidus, who loves to wonder, can 
have no better subject for his admiration than the pathos 
of the time. It is bred now of your mud by the opera¬ 
tion of your sun. ’Tis a strange serpent, and the tears 
of it are wet!’ 

^Tf you had been here when my landlord called you 
would have realised the utter absurdity of your prophecy. 
The idea of this angry soldier falling in love with me is 
ludicrous in the extreme. He only called because his 
stern sense of duty sent him, and when he thought he 
had stayed long enough he went with the alacrity with 
which one escapes from the dentist’s chair. He scared 
Aunt Fanny almost into fits; he is what Easie calls 


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soor-lookin’ customer/ but he has a sudden and rather 
delightful smile. So much for Colonel Home. . . . 

^^Your brother-in-law has just left us. He wired that 
he was in Edinburgh and would like to come out, and 
of course we were delighted to see him. 

^^You didn’t prepare us for such good looks. Aunt 
Fanny, who, like all spinster ladies, loves a man, has been 
remarking at intervals on the beautiful way his head is 
set on his shoulders. 

^‘He is certainly, as you said, very likeable, and so ex¬ 
traordinarily easy to know. We couldn’t have had a 
more appreciative visitor, and he seemed to like the 
thought of the children being at Little Phantasy. He is 
perhaps a little bit too facile, but he won the hearts of 
Aunt Fanny, Easie Orphoot, Hellie, and even that grim 
virgin. Miss Wotherspoon, at the first time of asking, so 
to speak. It is a blessing, for Aunt Fanny and Miss 
Wotherspoon are none too pleased at the thought of the 
children coming; but now when the poor things are tire¬ 
some and naughty (as they are bound to be sometimes) 
I hope they will remember what a delightful father they 
have and forgive them. It is absurd that such a boyish 
person should be the father of quite big children. He 
seemed so fond of them, and spoke so feelingly about them, 
that I couldn’t help wondering how he could go away 
and leave them for eight months. But men are queer. 

^^My dear, everything is ready for the children. The 
little beds look so expectant, and there is a big box of 
toys and picture-books for them to dive into if they are 
inclined to be lonesome at first. They come on Tuesday, 
by the ten train from Euston. I shall write you after 
they arrive. 

was very glad to get your letter from Port Said, but 
sorry you found the passengers such a boring lot. Con¬ 
sider, though, that it is hardly the moment for high 


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59 


spirits, the voyage out to India in the hot weather. I 
daresay by this time you have made many friends.—^You 
will be nearly there by now, and I shall wait anxiously 
for news of Tim. If you find him better you won’t mind 
the ^abuse’ you so confidently expected—as if Tim ever 
did anything but lie at your feet! 

‘^Miss Wotherspoon continues to have headaches when 
anything happens to put her out. Nothing puts out Easie. 
I find the kitchen has a fatal fascination for me with 
that woman in it. Her jests sometimes almost border on 
the Eabelaisian; but with two such ladies in the house 
as Aunt Fanny and Miss Wotherspoon I feel I can stand 
’ a somewhat broad humour. Nellie still pants and puffs 
like a shunting train over her work. I came in muddy 
the other day, and she rushed for a brush and volunteered 
to tidy me up. I felt exactly like a horse as I stood 
patiently while Nellie ^shushed’ under her breath as she 
brushed, directing me at intervals to ^Stand still, will 
ye!’ 

may as well confess I haven’t begun to live for others 
yet; indeed there seems little opportunity for such a thing 
in Muirburn. I’ve made friends with some of the people 
in the village; they are tolerant of me, but not excessively 
welcoming. 

^^But, oh, Blanche, such catkins by the Hope Water, 
and curly young bracken on the hillsides!—^Yours, 

“Kiesty.” 


Chapter VI 

most gentle pulpiter!” 

As You Like It. 

T he Manse at Hetherton was a striking contrast to 
tke Mnirburn Manse. The Brands existed in a 
spate of advanced shabhiness; the M’Candlishes were 
grand beyond belief, with rich carpets, brocade curtains, 
heavily carved and most solid furniture; the very win¬ 
dow blinds were trimmed about a yard deep with lace. 

The father of the Rev. Herman M’Candlish had not 
been a poor scholar but a rich Dundee manufacturer, 
who had always felt it to be a marked condescension on 
the part of his son to choose to be a minister of the 
Gospel. It was such a poorly paid job with very little 
to offer an ambitious young man in the way of advance¬ 
ment. 

It would be difficult to say what had turned young 
Herman’s mind to the church, for, though he had what 
may be described as a gentlemanly approbation of re¬ 
ligion, he was hardly conscious of a ^^call.” But in many 
ways he made a very successful minister. He had a fine 
voice, a good presence, an urbane manner, and a rever¬ 
ence for things as they have always been, and Hetherton, 
which owned an absurdly large manse in an absurdly large 
garden, and needed some one with a large private income, 
had never regretted its choice. 

Mrs. M’Candlish was a genteel little person with short 
legs, rather a pretty face, and most tidily done hair. Her 
behavioar was circumspect to a degree. Hever was there 
such a miracle of discretion as the wife of the minister 
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61 


of N’etherton. Scandal died in her presence, slain by 
the prim set of her mouth as she changed the subject. 
Even mere good-natured neighbourly interest V7as dis¬ 
mayed by her high ideal of what constituted conver¬ 
sation, and as a consequence she was not very popular 
at local tea-parties, where she was apt to prove some¬ 
thing of a kill-joy. 

She always spoke of her husband as ^^Mr. M’Candlish.’’ 

She had a fortune of her own. 

On the day of which I write the M’Candlishes walked 
in their garden in the cool of the evening. Mr. M^Cand- 
lish was genuinely fond of growing flowers, and inor¬ 
dinately proud of his rock garden, which he had largely 
made himself, and which would soon be at its best. 
Every day in this May month he spent at least an hour 
brooding like a Providence over each little clinging plant. 
The herbaceous borders promised well too, the lawns were 
shorn to a velvet smoothness, and the owner, wearing a 
light grey suit, and a very white, very high clerical collar, 
and smoking an excellent cigar, looked (and felt) the 
picture of a prosperous and contented country minister. 

^^Lovely evening, Aggie,” he said, complacently survey¬ 
ing his domain. 

^^Lovely, !Norman! As warm as June.” Mrs. M’Cand- 
lish took a large mouthful of each word, putting, as it 
were, every word into italics. 

Her husband removed his cigar from his mouth, looked 
at it affectionately, and said, ^^The little place looks well, 
Aggie.” 

^Tndeed, yes. I am glad you insisted on getting those 
large stone vases. I thought them an extravagance at 
the time, but they really look very well.” She folded her 
hands in front of her. ^Hn another fortnight we shall 
be looking our best, and we must be thinking of sending 
out invitations for the Garden Party.” 


62 PINK SUGAR 

The minister nodded. ‘^Ah, yes, our annual Garden 
Party.” 

INetherton Manse Garden Party was one of the features 
of the summer season in the district. When you received 
your invitation you knew that summer had really come, 
and that the Manse lupins were now at their best. 

‘^Order a good day, Aggie,” the minister jocularly sug¬ 
gested, and then looked suddenly grave as if he felt he 
had not spoken in the best of taste. ‘‘We have no control 
over the weather,” he finished rather obviously. 

^^As a rule we are very fortunate,” his wife said plac¬ 
idly. ^Mune is generally a dry month. ... I am just 
wondering, N’orman, if we ought not to have it purveyed 
this year? Prom Priorsford, or even from Edinburgh, 
As you know, up till now we have always prepared every¬ 
thing in the house, with a little outside assistance, but 
since we got the car we have extended our calling-list 
wonderfully. We owe hospitality to quite a number of 
people in Priorsford—all motor people—and I’m sure 
they would appreciate our little party. But if we have 
it on a larger scale I would not like to attempt the refresh¬ 
ments. We would need to have several kinds of sand¬ 
wiches and a variety of small cakes, and even ices. And 
we would need extra waiting, everything a little more 
elaborate. The question is whether it would not be 
better to have it all done from Edinburgh.” 

^T’m sure,” put in her husband, “Priorsford cakes are 
hard to beat.” 

“Oh, yes, Priorsford in some ways is just as good as 
Edinburgh, and certainly less expensive; but we are all 
so accustomed to Priorsford cakes that it would be more 
of a treat to get Edinburgh ones. And M’Vittie puts a 
little flag on each plate of sandwiches, naming each 
variety, and that is so chic/' 

As Mrs. M’Candlish made this long speech she was 


PINK SUGAR 


6S 


stepping sedately towards the house by her husband’s 
side, while he smoked, and nodded, and looked at the 
flowers. N’ow she paused, standing on the smooth turf, 
and looked at the house, trying as it were to see it through 
the eyes of the guests to he, especially the new friends in 
Priorsford. 

Surely a house to he proud of! The Manse itself had 
been freshly Jiarled in the early spring, and looked almost 
painfully clean; every lace-trimmed Hind hung with 
mathematical precision; the sash curtains (Mrs. M’Cand- 
lish had a weakness for sash-curtains) were crisp and 
fresh; the conservatory, which at their own expense they 
had built on to the drawing-room, was glowing with 
colour. 

Mrs. M’Candlish nodded her head gently in appro¬ 
bation. 

lovely night,” said Mr. M’Candlish, and threw 
away the stump of his cigar. The scent of it hung on 
the still air as the minister and his wife entered the 
drawing-room by the conservatory. 

Mrs. M’Candlish sat down on a small hard chair. All 
the other chairs and the large chesterfield had fat down 
cushions which needed to be plumped up every time they 
were sat upon, and she did not care to disarrange them. 
Her husband for the same reason sat on the piano stool. 

It was rather like a show drawing-room in a furniture 
shop. One almost expected to see the price-ticket at¬ 
tached to each article. The fireplace glittered with the 
latest thing in steel fittings. The whitest and furriest 
of rugs lay here and there on the thick pile carpet. The 
wall-paper was pale blue, and looked like watered silk. 
Large majestic vases stood about. One or two books, 
obviously wedding presents, lay on polished tables. Mrs. 
M’Candlish did not care for many books lying about— 
nothing, she thought, gave a room such a littered look; 


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so such volumes as the house contained weie confined 
strictly to the study, where smoking was also allowed. 
The drawing-room was seldom used, except to impress 
visitors. At intervals the minister and his wife gave a 
dinner-party, and then the company sat solemnly sunk 
in the large chairs, admiring the wonderful polish and 
perfection of the room. 

The study, or, as Mrs. M’Candlish preferred to call it, 
the library, was not so grand as the rest of the house. 
It was restfully shabby; indeed, it was almost the only 
room in the house that had a used look. There were 
comfortable, worn chairs, and a large, plain writing-table, 
and books. NTot so many books when all was said. Mr. 
M’Candlish was not a great reader, he had no passion 
for books, and one book-case held all his belongings. 
There were many volumes of sermons by popular clergy¬ 
men, and ^^Aids to Preachers’^; several shelves were filled 
by well-bound editions of standard authors, but the min¬ 
ister evidently distrusted his own taste in modern litera¬ 
ture, for whether in biography or poetry or fiction it was 
but poorly represented. 

This evening when Mr. and Mrs. M’Candlish had sat 
for a few minutes surveying the room that was the crown¬ 
ing glory of their house, Mrs. M’Candlish rose to pick 
a dead leaf from a plant. Her husband rose too, and 
presently they found themselves, as if propelled by in¬ 
visible hands, walking towards the study. 

There Mrs. M’Candlish settled herself into her own 
particular chair, crossed her feet, and said, ^Well, now, 
Horman, we must decide who all are to be invited.” 

Her husband lit his pipe, and prepared to consider the 
question. 

^‘All the usual people, I suppose—^the Carruthers, and 
the Hays, and Mrs. Lang, and the Brands, and . . 


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65 


^^Yes, of course, dear, but this year we will go further 
afield. Our friends in Priorsford, the new people at 
King’s Houses, and, of course. Colonel Home of Phan¬ 
tasy. It’s the first time he has been in residence since 
we came to Ketherton—and Miss Gilmour at Little Phan¬ 
tasy. By the way, she hasn’t returned our call, and I 

never see her in church-” 

There was a pause, and Mrs. M’Candlish was evidently 
thinking something rather scathing about Miss Gilmour’s 
manners; but her better nature prevailed, and all she said 

was, ^^She has lived so much abroad-” 

Mr. M’Candlish turned his large, kind, meaningless 
face on his wife and said, ^^Quite so.” 

Mrs. M’Candlish calculated in silence for a few min¬ 
utes, and then announced, think, Norman, we must 
invite at least fifty. There will be tennis and clock-golf 
for the young people, and the older people enjoy talking 
and seeing the kitchen-garden. I’ve been wondering— 
do you think, Norman, it would be wise to engage the 
Priorsford Band? They might play in the shrubbery 
(music among the trees would have a nice effect), but I 
don’t want to do it if you think it would be ostentatious 
or in any way unbecoming to our position. We must 
remember that we are clergy people and keep ourselves 
in check.” 

Mr. M’Candlish nodded gravely. 

^Ht’s quite true, Aggie. Personally, I think a baud 
would be a very cheery addition to the party, but one 
can’t be too careful. To rouse envy would be a bad 
thing. When one thinks of the poor fellows who enter 
the ministry with no private means, and when they get 
a living have their manses to furnish. What a struggle 
it must be for them all the time. I don’t know how they 
manage at all. It makes one almost ashamed to be so 




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comfortable—a car and all- That reminds me, we 

must send some peaches whenever they are ripe to the 
Brands.’’ 

Mrs. M’Candlish sighed. 

just wish Miss Brand was a more appreciative 
person. She really has the most ungracious manners— 
but, poor thing, what can you expect? Always so poor, 
and her youth gone, and never any decent clothes. I am 
sure that would sour any woman—the clothes, I mean. 
Anyway there will be no peaches ready for quite a time.” 
(This last thought appeared to give the good lady satis¬ 
faction, as if she thought Miss Brand’s manners might 
possibly have improved by the time the gift was made.) 
^^By the way, Norman, some one told me that the Little 
Phantasy people are going to Muirburn Church. They 
have been seen coming out two different Sundays.” 

Mr. M’Candlish knocked his pipe against the mantel¬ 
piece and got up. 

^Tt’s a good thing they go to some church, my dear. 
There is nothing I deplore so much as the lax ways young 
people are so apt to fall into as regards church attend¬ 
ance. . . . Well, I’ll just have time to see old Laidlaw 
before the dressing-bell goes. I hear he is ailing. Au 
revoir, my dear.” 

His wife, left alone, sat still for a little thinking about 
the Garden Party that was to be. She wanted it to be a 
really successful affair, and decided finally that it must be 
purveyed by M’Vittie’s; the little fiags on the sandwiches 
carried the day. And she would ask particularly for 
some of their delicious little citron cakes. M’Vittie’s 
strawberry ices were always a treat. She did hope it 
would be a fine warm day. Would it really be osten¬ 
tatious to engage the band from Priorsford ? Surely not 
if they played in the shrubbery. Besides, what possible 
difference could it make to any one whether or not the 



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67 


AUCandlishes (known to be people of means) bad a band 
at their Garden Party? Besides, the members of the 
band bad been put into new uniform (she bad helped at 
the bazaar that raised money for them), and looked very 
smart. Of course, if they were to remain in the shruV 
bery their appearance did not much matter. Still, they 
would emerge for tea, after the guests had finished and 
were engaged elsewhere. Anyway, she was determined 
that all the expenses of the Party would be borne by her¬ 
self. N’orman had bought the car—such a handsome one, 
the very best make—and the chauffeur w-as a big extra 
expense, though he did do odd jobs as well as look after 
the car. . . . How good Horman was, and how contrary 
of any one to prefer Mr. Brand—an estimable young 
man, doubtless, but so abrupt. Uncouth, was that the 
word ? And his sister rather worse. Hardly a word of 
thanks when they tried to show them kindness, and Lady 
Carruthers said she found the same thing. 

Mrs. M’Candlish looked at her watch—a quarter to 
seven. There would just be time to finish a story she 
was reading in The People^s Friend. She took the paper 
from a satin-lined work-basket (she did not care to leave 
it lying about in case any one thought the Friend, as 
she called it familiarly to herself, frivolous reading for 
a minister's wife), and in a second she was absorbed. 


Chapter VII 


“And there were no visitors, only chocolate ladies, 
and tall white lilies.” 


A Child's Dream. 


T he day before the children were due to arrive turned 
out to be a receiving day at Little Phantasy. All 
the neighbours who had tarried in their welcome to the 
new-comers chose to appear that sunny day in May. 

^^It’s always the way—a hunger or a burst/^ Miss 
Wotherspoon remarked to Easie, as she went to answer 
the third ring at the front door bell. 

Kirsty had never given a thought to the possibility of 
callers that day, and was devoting herself to the garden. 

She had come in at the window to talk for a minute 
with Miss Fanny, who was apt to feel neglected if left 
long alone, when Lady Carruthers was announced, and a 
tall woman of about fifty-five came into the room. 

In the country Lady Carruthers affected somewhat 
bizarre raiment. This afternoon she wore a very short 
skirt of many colours, a jumper of a single violent hue, 
checked stockings and shoes so exaggerated in the way 
of tongues and heavy soles that they made her seem 
feather-footed. As she never walked a step if she could 
help it, there seemed little reason for such sporting attire. 

Kirsty, looking at her with interest, decided that the 
visitor must have been a good-looking woman before her 
face had grown so soft and puffy that it seemed as if a 
dent must remain if it were touched. She had wandering 
brown eyes, a wide, slack mouth, and a somewhat affected 
manner. In her time she had gone through many phases. 

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69 


Just lately, when in London, she had met a stately lady 
whose serenity had greatly impressed her; so Muirhurn 
was being treated to the sight of Lady Carruthers with 
her hands folded and a far-away expression in her eyes, 
murmuring at intervals, ^^All is well.” 

Her husband felt it to he almost the most provoking of 
her phases, so far as they had gone. People who met 
Sir Andrew and Lady Carruthers for the first time in¬ 
variably put them down as NTew Rich, but in that they 
were wrong. Sir Andrew was a decent dull man who 
had inherited a fortune from his father. True, he had 
doubled it in the War, and for so doing had been given 
a K.B.E.—an honour that he had not much use for, 
except that, as he put it, ^fit pleased the wife.” He was 
a plain man to whom life held little of interest. The 
country bored him; he was of those who would rather 
hear the mouse cheep than the lark sing; he disliked 
shooting, and hated entertaining housefuls of guests. He 
liked to go off for a day with a rod, not because he wanted 
to catch fish, but because he wanted to escape from the 
necessity of talking to people. A fortune was thrown 
away on Sir Andrew. He would have been quite happy 
working in a city office fifty weeks out of the fifty-two; 
to him £500 a year and a semi-detached villa would have 
been ‘^paradise enow.” Lady Carruthers was the daugh¬ 
ter of a wealthy manufacturer. She had been a bright 
particular star in the suburb in which they had first 
pitched their palatial tent. There she had been content 
to devote her energies to bazaars and philharmonic 
societies and reading-clubs, but looking back from the 
eminence she had attained, it all seemed to be pitifully 
provincial. How that she was ^^county,” the thought of 
the villa-people she had once been satisfied to call her 
friends made her shudder. Hot that she was a snob, she 
would have told you, far from it; but now that she knew 


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what real refinement meant, chasms seemed to yawn be¬ 
tween her and the good-natured but unintellectual friends 
of her younger days. 

Edmonston Hall, which her husband hated with all 
that it meant of servants and guests and such worries, 
was her Mecca. Here she could live as she felt she had 
been meant to live, surrounded with beauty and taste. 
And her husband, looking back on the Maggie he had 
married (he still called her Maggie though she had been 
Margot to herself for many years) hardly recognised that 
hearty, simple creature in the much-mannered woman 
with an English accent, who lisped and posed, and dis¬ 
cussed things out of books which, as he would have told 
you, he had never even ^^heard tell of.” 

Lady Carruthers was a great talker, and this was the 
more courageous of her as she had a very uncertain grip 
of the pronunciation of the English language. When 
to use a broad A was an unsolved puzzle to her; indeed, 
so confused had she become as to whether gas should be 
called ^^gas” or ^^ges,” that she had given up alluding to 
that useful commodity altogether. Africa was another 
difficult word, and Arran hopeless. 

As Lady Carruthers came into the drawing-room at 
Little Phantasy she stopped, and, with her head on one 
side, said archly: 

‘^This is so exciting. How, do let me guess which is 
Miss Gilmour. You, I think-” and she half knelt be¬ 

fore Miss Eanny. 

^Wes,” said that lady in the congratulatory tone in 
which one tells a child playing at Hunt the Thimhle that 
it is ^Varm.” To tell the truth, she was more than a 
little surprised at this behaviour on the part of such a 
large and (apparently) sensible person. She put out her 
hand to help to raise the visitor, and said kindly: 

mean, of course, I’m Miss Gilmour of Harelaw, 



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71 


"but it is my niece who lives here. Kir sty, my dear . . 

It seemed very unfortunate to Miss Fanny that Kirsty 
should have chosen to garden that afternoon, and that 
she should have to receive visitors in a large pinafore 
and a shabby felt hat pulled over her hair. But Kirsty 
came forward unabashed, thrusting her gardening gloves 
into a large pocket, and surveying her hands doubtfully. 

‘^1 wonder if my hand is clean enough to shake! IVe 
been poking about in the border out there. It’s such fun 
not knowing what’s in it. The whole garden is a sort 
of lucky-bag to me.” 

As she spoke she shook hands and pulled forward a 
chair into which the visitor sank, crying: 

‘^A garden! ‘ What a joy it is! You must see our gar¬ 
dens at Edmonston Hall. They are very extensive, and 
require six gardeners! A lot of glass, you know.” 

Lady Carruthers had a curious way of avoiding the 
eyes of the person she was addressing. It gave her a 
furtive look, which accorded ill with her foolish but per¬ 
fectly honest face. 

How she hitched herself up in her chair—it was one of 
those low chairs with loose, down-filled cushions into 
which heavy people sink in a way that leaves their legs 
exposed to a critical world—and, with her eyes wander¬ 
ing round the room, she continued her conversation: 

^^And how do you like this place. Miss Gilmour? 
Phantasy—isn’t it a strange name ? Almost like a joke! 
From what I hear there is precious little phantasy about 
the owner. Have you met Colonel Home, Miss Gilmour ? 
He has never called at Edmonston Hall, but then, he is 
lame, poor man. Of course he could drive. But,” lightly, 
^^perhaps he doesn’t care for calling. Some men don’t. 
Sir Andrew, now, would sooner do anything. When I 
do get him to go with me he’s such a picture of misery 
that he makes me feel quite unwell. I didn’t urge him 


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to come to-day seeing that there was no gentleman here 
for him.” 

^^No^ indeed,” Kirstj agreed, ^^it would have been a 
thousand pities to make him miserable. Have you been 
long in this neighbourhood?” 

^^About five years. Miss Gilmour. It’s what you would 
call a dull neighbourhood, socially, I mean: no society— 
to speak of; but happily,” here Lady Carruthers tried sit¬ 
ting forward on the treacherous down cushions, thus gain¬ 
ing more control of her legs, ^Lappily, Miss Gilmour, I’m 
not at all dependent on neighbours.” 

Kirsty smiled at her visitor. 

^^You mean you are good friends with yourself! I 
know. There is nothing pleasanter than having a lot 
of time to oneself. I suppose you read and garden 
and . . 

^^And think about Life,” said Lady Carruthers. “Life 
is so interesting, isn’t it? Have you read a book called 
Nothing Doubting 

“I don’t think so,” Kirsty said. “Who wrote it ?” 

“Oh,” said Lady Carruthers, sinking her voice, “it 
comes from the Other Side.” 

“America?” said Miss Kanny brightly. 

A pained look passed over the visitor’s face. “Ho, no,” 
she said, “I mean it comes from the Unseen—spirits— 
you know. It is so wonderful, you learn from it to trust. 
It is so nice to think that whatever happens in the world 
is right.” 

Miss Fanny sighed, and Kirsty said, “Yes,” somewhat 
doubtfully. 

“Don’t you feel that ?” Lady Carruthers asked. “But 
you must. It’s all a question of getting on to the Higher 
Plane. I used to worry. Wore myself out about the 
way the servants went on, and all that, but now I have 


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73 


such a beautiful feeling of serenity. I just fold my hands 
and say, ‘All is well.’ ” 

Kirsty looked at her visitor, a somewhat ludicrous 
figure perched on the edge of the chair, her pillar-like legs 
rather far apart, a foolishly benign smile on her face. 

“But,” she objected, “all isn't well. To read the news¬ 
papers-” 

“Oh,” Lady Carruthers said airily, “I never read the 
newspapers, except the Births and Deaths and the Court 
News.” 

“That explains it,” said Kirsty. “You can’t feel very 
serene when you read that there are thousands and thou¬ 
sands of men out of work, and children not getting enough 
to eat.” 

“My dear Miss Gilmour,” Lady Carruthers said, “that 
is all the effect of this absurd dole. The men don’t want 
to work.” 

Kirsty opened her mouth to say something, and shut 
it again firmly. 

“Yes,” the good lady continued, “I know everything 
will work out right. A little patience is all that is needed. 
Human nature is so fine, when one really looks for the 
good.” 

“I’d like to believe that,” Kirsty said, “but sometimes 
one despairs. Did you notice lately in the papers—ah, 
but you don’t read the papers! I forgot—^that a woman 
left in charge of three little children while their father 
was at sea so ill-used them that two of them died. She 
starved them and beat them with sticks that had nails in 
them . . . little soft creatures, so easy to hurt.” 

Kirsty’s face was white and her eyes dark with horror 
at the thought of this beast of prey. 

Miss Fanny knitted rapidly, for she felt uncomfortable. 

“Try not to think about it,” she said soothingly. 



74 


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Ladj Carruthers was looking genuinely shocked, not 
so much at the tale as at Kirsty for having told it. 

^^But surely, Miss Gilmour, it is rather an unhealthy 
taste to care to read about horrors. It is very dreadful 
of course, but there will be some explanation. They must 
have been low people. Don’t dwell on it. Think rather 
of all the children who have happy homes, dear little well- 
kept children in warm nurseries.” 

And Kirsty, feeling herself to have acted like a fool, 
said, ^^Yes, I am sure you are right.—Ah, here comes tea. 
Aunt Fanny, I know you have been longing for it. Lady 
Carruthers, do come to this chair by the tea-table. That’s 
better.” 

They were halfway through tea when the Brands 
came in. 

They had had tea early, and walked slowly up to Phan¬ 
tasy hoping that tea would be over there. ^^And if Miss 
Gilmour’s out, so much the better,” Eebecca had said 
hopefully; so it was with a glum face that she found her¬ 
self seated by Lady Carruthers at the tea-table, buttering 
a scone, while that lady spoke volubly. 

Kirsty was glad to see the Brands. After half an hour 
of Lady Carruthers, Eebecca’s grim fame was like a 
tonic. One could see that she was no facile optimist; 
life was evidently a struggle to Eebecca. 

Kirsty had gone for two Sundays to Muirburn Church 
and had enjoyed the ministrations of Eobert Brand, and 
now she found that ^The long lean lad,” as she had chris¬ 
tened him, seen close at hand, was an attractive person, 
with the light of humour in his eyes and a cleft in his 
chin. 

She put him beside Miss Fanny, who was much re¬ 
freshed to see a minister again, and immediately launched 
forth into inquiries about the congregation, the size of 


PINK SUGAR 


75 


the Manse, the givings to Foreign Missions—subjects cal¬ 
culated to set any parson at his ease. 

As she poured out tea for the new-comers Kirsty listened 
idly to the conversation of Lady Carruthers and Eehecca. 
Lady Carruthers was relating the marvellous effect the 
reading of some article had had on her, while Rebecca 
listened, supremely uninterested. 

think it was in The Fortnightly, Miss Brand. Yes, 
I’m almost sure it was in The Fortnightly. I shall send 
it you. It gave me quite a spiritual uplift.” 

^^Thank you,” Rebecca said, without enthusiasm, ^^but 
I haven’t much time for reading just now. With one 
small girl as sole servant there’s a lot to do in a house, 
and when I do have a minute I like a good story to take 
me out of myself. But I daresay Rob might enjoy it: 
he would read anything.” 

Lady Carruthers looked somewhat crushed, and turned 
to her hostess for comfort. 

“You read, I am sure, Miss Gilmour,” with a glance 
round at the book-shelves which lined the room. “N^ow, 
I wonder if you follow any course of reading. I think 
that is so helpful.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Kirsty said, pouring some water 
into the teapot. “Just now I’m reading The Wide Wide 
World. Did I hear you say. Miss Brand, that you run 
the Manse with one small girl? I’m so interested, for 
I have only just begun housekeeping. Let’s talk about 
servants. Do you mind? I think it is the most absorb¬ 
ing subject.” 

Both the visitors looked at their hostess. The big 
chintz pinafore and rakish hat gave her the look of a 
school-girl; her face was all alight with interest. Both 
ladies disapproved of her, and each had her own reason. 

“Affected,” thought Rebecca. 


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^^Mindless,” thought Lady Carruthers. 

make such mistakes/’ Kirsty went on, ^^ahout order¬ 
ing things, you know. I do wish you would give me 
some hints.” 

Eehecca swallowed a bite of scone quickly and said: 

‘^My hints would be very little use to you, I’m afraid. 
My system of housekeeping is doing with as little as 
possible. It’s no fun at all, I assure you.” 

^^We have a housekeeper at Edmonston Hall,” Lady 
Carruthers said rather loftily. capable woman. She 
stands between me and all the sordid details of house¬ 
keeping. Such a relief! It leaves me free to devote 
myself to my books and my garden. I don’t like to be 
worried wondering why they eat so many kippered 
herrings in the servants’ hall.” 

Kirsty began to laugh. ^‘I’m so new to it,” she ex¬ 
plained, ‘^that the kipper question would interest instead 
of worry me. I’m afraid I’m a trial to the servants. 
Miss Wotherspoon, the housemaid, often fixes me with a 
disapproving eye.” 

^^Do you call your housemaid ^Miss’?” Lady Carruth¬ 
ers asked. 

“Oh, yes, that’s no effort. I would call her ^Your 
Grace’ if it would make her feel happier.” 

What reply Lady Carruthers would have made to this 
will never be known, for at that moment Miss Wother¬ 
spoon announced: “Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Hay,” and 
Kirsty, jumping up, saw enter the room a couple that 
might have walked out of mid-Victorian days. Both 
were over seventy, both were high-coloured and white- 
haired; they brought with them such an air of jollity 
and good-humour that every one in the room had to re¬ 
spond. 

Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Hay thought it only fitting to 
dress with some ceremony when they paid a first call. 


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77 


They belonged to the days when people had ^^best” 
clothes. Mrs. Hay wore black because, she said, it was 
the only becoming wear for a woman of her years, black 
silk and fine lace and spotless white gloves, and very de¬ 
lightful she looked. 

Miss Fanny, looking at her, comparing her with Lady 
Carruthers of the gaudy stockings and short skirts and 
violent jumpers, felt vaguely pleased and proud. Lady 
Carruthers was twenty years younger, and represented 
what she thought was the last word in modern fashion; 
but what an unpleasing spectacle she was with her pufiy 
white face and sloppy, loud clothes compared with this 
daintily-clad, wholesome-looking old lady. 

And how truly delightful, thought Miss Fanny, were 
the manners of the Victorian couple. The quiet dignity, 
the rather formal phrasing of their welcome to the new¬ 
comers, combined with the real warmth and kindness of 
their eyes, pleased her mightily. Modern people and 
their modern manners confused and frightened Miss 
Fanny; she so seldom had any idea what they wanted 
to be at. This Lady Carruthers, for instance—^what non¬ 
sensical ways she had! And her conversation was the 
most tiresome thing. Miss Fanny thought, that she had 
ever listened to. 

Mr. Anthony Hay was talking to Kirsty, asking really 
intelligent questions about things that mattered: central 
heating (so essential), a good kitchen range; the danger 
of damp from the water. Miss Fanny nodded her head 
in profound agreement, and even ventured a remark or 
two, and soon Mr. Anthony Hay, in his dark blue suit 
and white-spotted tie (Miss Fanny did like a man to look 
fresh and well brushed), had drawn his chair up beside 
her and was telling her tales of the countryside and its 
characters, and laughing at his own jokes. Hot only that, 
he was making the other visitors join with him in his in- 


78 


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terest and amusement. Mr, Brand capped his stories 
with others, and Eehecca forgot that she hated paying 
calls on rich, affected young women, and laughed her sur¬ 
passingly pretty clear laugh. Lady Carruthers said, ^^Oh, 
but how amusing,” and presently got up to go. 

^^I’m an old-fashioned wife, Miss Gilmour,” she ex¬ 
plained, ^^and I don’t like to leave my good man too long 
alone. When I have been away for a day he says it 
has seemed like a month. Quite touching, isn’t it?” 

It may have been touching, but it was certainly untrue. 
Lady Carruthers had no intention of being untruthful, 
but living with the unresponsive Andrew had bred in her 
the habit of putting into his mouth the pretty and polite 
speeches he ought to have made but never did make. 
Sometimes she even did it in her husband’s presence, and 
it was awkward for the guests when that maligned man 
burst out: ‘^Me! I never said such a thing!” 

Kirsty noticed that after the departure of Lady Car¬ 
ruthers Eehecca Brand’s glance became much less baleful, 
and she sat down beside her and sought to please her by 
praising Muirburn, and the church, and the preaching of 
Mr. Brand. But all the flowers of flattery she offered 
her seemed to wilt under the disconcerting gaze of 
Eebecca’s small grey eyes. She had the air, Kirsty 
thought, of not believing a word that was said to her, and 
it was with something of relief that she saw her rise to go. 

The Anthony Hays stayed, comfortably talking, for a 
little while, and then departed, pressing invitations on. 
the two Miss Gilmours. 

^'Well, have you enjoyed your afternoon?” Kirstj 
asked her aunt, as she came into the room after speeding 
the departing guests from the doorstep. 

^^Oh, yes, dear. It does one good to see people now 
and again. They seem pleasant people. Mr. and Mrs. 


PINK SUGAR 79 

Hay are specially nice.—Dear me! Isn’t that the bell 
again ?” 

It was, and the last visitor of the afternoon appeared— 
Mrs. Strang of Hopewaterfoot. 

oughtn’t to come in,” she said. ^^You’ve had the 
whole of Muirburn, it seems, this afternoon, and I’m 
afraid I’ll prove the last straw. But may I just stay 
and look at this room for a minute? I’ve been away, 
or I would have been here long ago. I was so excited 
when I heard that Little Phantasy was let—it’s easily the 
nicest house hereabout, and I was afraid. ... Now that 
I’ve seen this room I know you’re just the right people 
to live in it. Lady Carruthers is capable of hanging ‘The 
Soul’s Awakening’ above that fireplace. No, I’m not 
really unkind. I like Lady Carruthers in lots of ways, 
but i she has a most unstitched mind, now hasn’t she?” 

As she spoke Mrs. Strang looked full into Kirsty’s face 
and laughed so infectiously that Kirsty had to laugh too. 
She had a small impudent face with freckles on the 
somewhat tip-tilted nose, and a wide red mouth. She 
was straight and slender, and had a rather boyish, gallant 
look about her. 

“I’m only going to stay ten minutes, I promise you, 
so please be kind and tell me about yourselves. You,” 
nodding at Kirsty, “are Miss Gilmour, I know, for some 
one pointed you out to me yesterday in the village.” 

“And this is my aunt, also Miss Gilmour, who is so 
very kind as to live with me. We are very interested to 
see you, because of your books.” 

“Have you read any of them ?” Mrs. Strang asked. 

Kirsty, taken aback, blushed and stammered, and Mrs. 
Strang laughed cheerfully. 

“It’s not a question any nice-minded author would ever 
have asked you. The proper thing is to be very coy about 


80 


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one’s books and allude to tbem as ^one or two little things. 
Of course, you won’t have heard of them.’ But I’m 
frankly disgusted when I find people in a state of com¬ 
plete ignorance about my immortal works. I’ve written 
several books. Jean Hill I call myself. My best known 
book is The Penny WhistleP 

^^But I’ve read it,” Kirsty cried in great excitement. 
^^I love it. Aunt Fanny, you know I was telling you 
about it only the other day, and wondering how you had 
missed it. I always keep a copy, but it seems to have 
been lost in the general melee. I must send for another 
at once, and we’ll read it aloud. Imagine you being Jean 
Hill.” 

^‘How, that’s more like the thing,” Mrs. Strang said 
encouragingly. ‘^I’m not going to stay a minute longer. 
When will you both come to see me ? To-morrow ? 
Wednesday? Thursday? I’ve just got back, so I’ve no 
engagements. Ho come to luncheon to-morrow ?” 

Kirsty explained, while Miss Fanny crept into her 
shawls to escape this so precipitate lady, that the next 
day would be wholly given over to preparations for the 
coming of three children from London. 

hope they will be here all summer,” she added. 

^^Then you must bring them all to Hopewaterfoot and 
we’ll have a picnic. We’ll just seize a good day and ar¬ 
range it all in a minute. That will be fine. % . . By the 
way, how do you get on with Archie ?” 

^^Archie ?” said Kirsty. 

^^Your landlord. Colonel Home?” 

^^Oh, quite well. We hardly know him; he has been 
very kind,” Kirsty stammered. 

‘That’s good. Well, I’m off.” 

Kirsty and her aunt looked at each other after Mrs. 
Strang had driven off in the pony-cart. 

“Hou’t you think, dear,” Miss Fanny said gently, “that 


PINK SUGAR 


81 


people who write books are always, well—just a little 
peculiar? Fm afraid Mrs. Strang must be what they 
call Bohemian?” 

^^Oh, don’t you like her ? She reminds me of my friend 
Blanche Cunningham; something of the cheeky school¬ 
boy about her, but frightfully straight and honest. It’s 
very amusing, isn’t it, meeting new people? I’ll go 
to Hopewaterfoot and Cherry trees with joy, but I doubt 
if we are quite up to the standard of Edmonston Hall, 
you and I, with its six gardeners, and housekeepers, and 
kippers in the servants’ hall. What do you think ?” 


Chapter VIII 

“Have you heard the news?” said the Moor Wife. 

“The Will-o*>the-Wisps are in town.” 

Hans Andersen. 

T he Day had come. 

At least twenty times Kirsty had wandered through 
the rooms prepared for the travellers and gazed with de¬ 
light at all the arrangements made for their comfort. 
There were no ornaments to break, no toilet-covers to 
crumple and worry. Solid chairs, comfortable and squat, 
a shelf of books which she guessed children would like 
(or at any rate should like) : Alice, The Jungle Boohs, 
Treasure Island, The yVind in the Willows, It had given 
her infinite pleasure to put them there, and she had dipped 
into each one as she put it on the shelf. 

The Primrose Room, Barbara’s room, was a little 
^^paradise of dainty devices.” Barbara was ten. Did 
girls of ten like dainty things ? Rirsty tried to remem¬ 
ber across twenty years; anyway she thought Barbara 
would like her room. It had pale primrose walls and a 
soft grey carpet. The furniture was pale grey, very 
simple in design, and the chintz had a demure, old-world 
pattern of bunches of primroses on a grey ground. 

Kirsty had taken particular pains with Miss Carter’s, 
the governess’s room, and had filled it with flowers to 
give it a welcoming air. The preparations had been pure 
delight. Kever, Kirsty thought, had she been so happy. 

It was not till she sat down to lunch with Miss Fanny 
that distrust began to lay hands on her, and she sank into 
silence. Miss Fanny was always rather quiet at meals, 
82 ’ 


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83 


for she took them seriously. She ate as. if she thoroughly 
enjoyed every bite, but always wore a resigned air as if 
she were saying to herself, ^^Z)ear me, this is a very good 
dinner, but who knows how long I shall have health to 
enjoy a meal ? It’s an uncertain world.” 

Kirsty peppered a baked egg, and looked at her aunt 
musingly. 

^^I’ve just been thinking,” she said, ^^that I know abso¬ 
lutely nothing about children. I’ve only dreamed about 
them, and read about them, and I’m afraid I’m going to 
be distressingly shy of the actual. What shall I talk to 
them about ? Suppose they take a hate at me whenever 
they see me ?” 

Miss Fanny laid down her fork—her egg had been 
exactly right, not over-baked and not too soft—pulled a 
shawl closer about her shoulders and sighed. 

^^You can never tell with children,” she said. ‘^They 
like the most extraordinary people. I remember your 
father as a child had a perfect passion for tramps; he 
would have followed one anywhere. They very rarely 
like really nice people. I can’t help thinking it shows a 
lack of discrimination.” 

Kirsty laughed. ^^Then, if they don’t like me, I may 
take it as a kind of a compliment, as Smee said?” 

Miss Fanny sighed again, and helped herself to a beef- 
olive from the dish Miss Wotherspoon was holding out to 
her in the grimly disapproving manner in which she 
always waited at table, a manner which meant, ^^Is this 
what I have come to ? I’ll do my duty, but if things were 
rightly ordered I know who would be doing the waiting.” 

Miss Fanny was silent until her plate was empty. She 
made the tidiest of plates. To see her eat a chop was a 
revelation, and Kirsty, who always found a great many 
things to leave, felt thankful that the children would find 
at least one example to follow. 


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worst of children’’—Miss Fanny stopped and 
looked at the open window, shivering ostentatiously— 
^^the worst of children is that they are a constant irrita¬ 
tion. Do you think, dear, it is quite wise to keep the 
window so wide open when we are at meals? There is 
always a cold air from the water.” 

‘^Oh, do you think such a little air can do us any harm ? 
It’s such a lovely day. . . . Oh, well, close the window, 
will you. Miss Wotherspoon, please? . . . Don’t you 
like children. Aunt Fanny?” 

like well-behaved children quite well, but all chil¬ 
dren have such uncomfortable ways. They lean up 
against you and whine, or else they tear about upsetting 
things, which is worse, and if you don’t happen to know 
where they are they are certain to be in mischief, and as 
they get older they get impudent-” 

It was Kirsty’s turn to sigh. 

^^Aunt Fanny, you’re not at all reassuring, and to-day 
I need to be reassured, for I feel that I have attempted 
something rather beyond me. How can I go to the sta¬ 
tion to-night and meet three possibly hostile children who 
won’t want to live with me ? What will Miss Carter do 
all day ? What is there for any one to do ? Oh, this is 
dreadful-” 

^^They’ll fall in the Hope Water for one thing,” Miss 
Fanny said. ‘Why any one would build a house at the 
very water’s edge I cannot understand. So dangerous for 
every one, rheumatism and children drowning and mists 
in the evening.” 

Miss Fanny’s determined pessimism began to have its 
usual effect on her niece. From where she sat she could 
see the sun shining on the Hope Water through a willow 
which “grew aslant the brook,” dipping its grey velvet 
pussy-pads into the shining ripples. Above, the ground 
rose steeply in a tangle of larch and rowan-trees—larches 




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85 


for the spring, and rowans for the autumn. There was 
comfort in the sight, and she cried: 

“Oh, aren’t we the lucky ones to have a house beside 
running water? And you know. Aunt Fanny, it would 
be a very small and inert child that could drown in the 
Hope Water. Our children are large. Why, Bill the 
baby is nearly six.” 

Miss Fanny buttered a bit of toast with care. 

“The worst age!” she said. “Ho sense, and always 
sticky. However, I hope it will be all right.” 

Punctually at six-thirty that evening the train which 
brought passengers from the junction sauntered into 
Muirburn station. 

Kirsty stood on the platform eagerly scanning the pas¬ 
sengers. A girl got out and walked demurely away. 
Two school-boys tumbled out, laughing and pushing each 
other. Two “business gentlemen,” who owned houses in 
Muirburn and travelled daily into Glasgow, got out, to 
be greeted by wives and daughters. Ho one else. Had 
they not come ? Kirsty felt slightly relieved, and at the 
same time vastly, achingly disappointed. 

Then a door burst open and a tall young woman got 
out, hurriedly followed by a girl with two long plaits of 
shining hair, and a boy struggling with a fishing-rod and 
basket and other impedimenta of the sportsman. 

“Come on, Bill,” Kirsty heard the tall young woman 
say, and she saw standing, half in and half out of the 
carriage, a small figure in a blue jersey and short blue 
trousers. It was a very small figure, but there was some¬ 
thing oddly commanding about it. 

Bill’s head was large and covered with tossed yellow 
hair which defied the brush. His eyes were a lovely sea- 
blue with golden lashes. His nose was short and inclined 
to turn up, he had a long upper lip, a wide curly mouth, 


86 


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and a heavy jovrl. ^^Like a bloodhound,” Kirsty said to 
herself, and although it seems improbable that a golden¬ 
haired little boy should even remotely suggest a blood¬ 
hound, yet the likeness was there. 

He stood placidly, unmoved by the appeals of his fam¬ 
ily, refusing firmly to leave the train until he had seen all 
his special belongings landed on the platform; then he 
descended, in time to meet Kirsty who had come shyly 
up to the group. 

''I think you must be Miss Carter,” she said to the tall 
young woman. am so very glad to see you. And Bar¬ 
bara ? And Specky ? And this, I think, is Bill.” 

Barbara came forward and held up her face to be 
kissed. 

Specky grinned bashfully, and disentangled a hand to 
shake, but Bill stood staring, with an unsmiling face, 
until Miss Carter took his hand and laid it in Kirsty^s., 

Kirsty, feeling very shy under this unwinking scrutiny, 
picked up a large untidy paper parcel and made a move 
towards the waiting wagonette—having no conveyance of 
her own, she was dependent on this vehicle, which could 
be hired from the husband of Mrs. Dickson at the shop. 
But no sooner had she touched the parcel than she was 
startled by a shout of rage from Bill. 

She at once dropped it, while Barbara said, ^Tou 
mustn’t touch that, please. It’s Bill’s melodeon.” 

^^It’s my melodeon,” echoed Bill. carry it myself.” 

Then be quick about it,” Miss Carter said briskly, 
^^and don’t keep Miss Gilmour waiting. Specky, you 
might take that bag of books, and Barbara, you can man¬ 
age the wraps.” 

The porter had meantime carried the trunks to a wait¬ 
ing cart, and soon they were all on their way to Little 
Phantasy. The children sat silent, while Kirsty and Miss 
Carter exchanged civilities. 


PINK SUGAR 


87 


Miss Carter was a pleasant-looking girl with dark hair 
and eyes and a good-natured mouth. It relieved Kirsty 
greatly to hear that she loved the country. 

“I love out of doors/’ she said. ‘^I’d never enter a town 
if I could help it.” 

^^Yet you have just come from London/’ Kirsty re¬ 
minded her. ‘^Have you been long with them?” She 
nodded towards the children, who were absorbed in the 
passing of some sheep and lambs. 

^Two years. I’d suffer more than living in Clapham 
for their sakes. Besides I promised their mother-” 

^^I never knew her,” Kirsty said softly. ‘L’m glad they 
have you. I know you will help me to make them happy.” 

^^You needn’t worry about that. They are naturally 
^^PPy children, and they have been nearly demented at 
the thought of getting back to Scotland. Bill has packed 
and unpacked his little case every day for a fortnight. 
I do hope you won’t think I have let them get out of 
hand, but he is often so stubborn and makes such a noise 
that, for the sake of peace, I sometimes pass over things.” 

^^Six big mother sheep, seven white lambs, and a black 
one,” reported Bill, who had been hanging his head over 
the side of the carriage. didn’t see a sheep near all the 
time I was at Clapham.” 

^^Bill broke all the blinds on the London train,” Bar¬ 
bara said cheerfully and irrelevantly. 

^^Surely not all of them ?” said Kirsty. 

^Well, the two in our carriage, and I think the one that 
was nearest to him in the dining-car.” 

^^Yes,” said Bill complacently. 

Miss Carter looked at him severely. ^Tt’s nothing to 
be proud of,” she said. 

thought you hadn’t come,” Kirsty broke in. ^Why 
were you so reluctant to leave the train ?” 

‘^Because,” said Miss Carter, ^Ve didn’t realise that it 



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was our station. We couldn’t make out what the porter 
said, and we saw no name-hoard, and I jumped out on 
the platform to ask. What would have happened if we 
had been taken on?” 

^^Nothing very deadly,” Kirsty assured her. ^^You 
would just have gone on to Priorsford. But I got a had 
fright when I thought you hadn’t come.” 

^^Then you really wanted us,” Miss Carter said in an 
undertone. 

Kirsty nodded. “You may he very sure of that.” 

The wagonette passed through the gates that guarded 
Phantasy, and turned down the winding road that led to 
the dower-house. As the Hope Water, cheerfully brawl¬ 
ing, came into sight, Specky rose to his feet, his fishing- 
rod clasped to his heart, his face as the face of one be¬ 
holding the Promised Land, gazed at the burn, then sank 
back in his seat with a long, satisfied sigh. 

His governess, who had been watching him with an un¬ 
derstanding smile, turned to Kirsty and whispered: 

“Pishing is his passion, but never in his wildest 
dreams did he imagine anything so ideal as to live close 
beside a trout stream.” 

Kirsty laughed happily as she jumped out of the 
wagonette and proceeded to lift her children down. 

“Here we are at home,” she cried. “Ring the bell, 
Specky, and Miss Wotherspoon will come.” 


Chapter IX 

‘‘Is thy name William? 

William, sir. 

A fair name.” 

As You Like It. 

rir^HE moment of waking at Little Phantasy always 
A gave Kirsty peculiar pleasure. To look through 
the wide-open windows and see Ratchell humped against 
the dawn-flushed sky, to lie and listen to the sounds of a 
new day beginning, and remember that she was in a 
Tweeddale glen, in a home of her own, these were de¬ 
lights new-born every morning. 

On the children’s flrst morning in their new home she 
woke very early and lay wondering for a little what was 
the difference she felt in the house. The usual early 
morning stillness—Miss Wotherspoon and Easie were not 
inclined to be early birds—^was broken by a soft rustling 
and whispering, the sound of the padding of small naked 
feet, stifled trills of laughter. 

Kirsty looked at the little clock by her bedside. Five 
o’clock. Eidiculous! Breakfast was not till nine, the 
children would starve. She foresaw all sorts of complica¬ 
tions if this sort of thing went on. Breakfast would 
have to be put forward an hour, which meant that the 
servants would have to rise an hour earlier, and she sighed 
as she thought of the tempers that would be smashed in 
the process. And as she sighed she thrust her feet into 
mocassins, threw her dressing-gown round her, and opened 
her bedroom room. 

All was quiet in the passage. 


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Barbara’s door was slightly open, and she looked in. 

Barbara at any rate was no disturber of the peace; 
she lay in profound slumber halfway down the bed, her 
long plaits nearly touching the floor. 

Kirsty softly shut the door, and went down some steps 
and along another short passage to the Stable. 

The carefully planned chamber was a scene of wreck¬ 
age. The two little beds, white and inviting with clean 
fair linen, into which she had tucked the boys the night 
before, were pitiful now, the sheets crumpled into wisps, 
the pillows reposing on the floor, which was also strewn 
with boots and toys and garments and the picture-books 
they had taken to bed with them. It seemed impossible 
to Kirsty, who had never known small boys, that such a 
mess could have been made of a room in so short a period 
of time. 

As she opened the door there was a sudden rustle and 
a hush. 

Bill’s bed was empty, but there were two humps in the 
other bed, and when Kirsty said, ^Where’s Bill, Specky ?” 
a head emerged from under the bedclothes and explained: 

^^He’s in my bed. He says he’s a Russian refucheese, 
and he’s got nothing on.” 

Then Kirsty saw among the many articles scattered on 
the floor a diminutive sleeping-suit which somehow had 
a look of Bill. 

she said sternly. 

A hump at the foot of the bed moved, and presently the 
culprit crawled out. 

Kirsty started when she saw him. Hot only was he 
naked, but his nose was a bright carmine, a hectic patch 
adorned each round cheek, while on his chin and forehead 
were dabs of black. His yellow hair stood flercely on end. 

^^What on earth-” Kirsty began, when Specky 

again explained: 



PINK SUGAR 


93 

“You know the toys you gave us last night —Kirsty 
had been so afraid that the children might feel homesick 
that she had lavished all the treasures she had accumu¬ 
lated on them at once.—“There was a paint-box, and 
Bill wanted to paint when he woke up, but there was no 
painting-book, so he did his own face.’’ Specky regarded 
his brother rather proudly. “He looks like a clown, I 
think.” 

“I’m a Eussian-refuchesse clown,” Bill said, and 
smiled broadly. 

Kirsty hardly knew what to say. It seemed a pity to 
begin the first day by scolding, such a “sunshine morn¬ 
ing” as it promised to be. Already the sun was bright on 
Eatchell, while the mist lay in soft swathes in the glens. 
She recalled the gardener’s weather prophecy— 

‘Tf the mist takes the howes 
There’ll be drouth for the knowes . . 

But the young ruffians could not go unreprimanded. She 
bent and, picking up the sleeping-suit, handed it to Bill, 
telling him in dignified tones to put it on at once. To 
her relief Bill seemed rather impressed, and obediently 
wriggled into the garment; then he awaited develop¬ 
ments. 

Kirsty went to the washstand and took a sponge which 
she found there, and rubbing it well with soap, proceeded 
to scrub the disfiguring marks from Bill’s face. He 
stood it well, only remarking, “If you rub soap on 
sponges, you make them slimy, but that’s Specky’s 
sponge, so it’s all right.” 

Specky, careless as to the state of his sponge, was 
standing on his head in the bed. 

Soon Kirsty had them both tucked up, and was lectur¬ 
ing them kindly but firmly on the necessity of small boys 


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remaining peacefully asleep until their elders and betters 
chose to bestir themselves. 

^What time is it Bill demanded. 

^^Only about a quarter-past five/’ Kirsty told him in 
shocked tones. 

^Well, that’s a good time to get up/’ said Bill. 

^^And we could have breakfast at six/’ said Specky, 
^^and that would give us a fine long day. I’m hungry now. 
Bill woke me hours ago, before the light had quite 
come.” 

never needed to wake up,” Bill boasted, his yellow 
head jumping up from the pillow as if worked by a spring. 
‘^I’ve been awake all night like the sheep and the cows.” 

As Kirsty had seen them both fast asleep before she 
went to bed she was not impressed by this statement. 

‘^Could we have something to eat?” Specky asked po¬ 
litely, and want my breakfast,” said Bill. 

Kirsty looked vaguely round. What could she get them 
to eat at this hour—two and a half hours away from morn¬ 
ing tea? She was still very ignorant about household 
matters. Where did bread stay when it wasn’t meal¬ 
times? She might attempt to raid the pantry, but Miss 
Wotherspoon was addicted to a certain fearful looking 
for burglars and had a passion for locking up places, 
so it would probably be no use. However, there might 
be something to eat in the big cupboard in the dining¬ 
room. 

^^I’ll look for some biscuits,” she said, and, pulling her 
dressing-gown round her, prepared to sally forth on the 
quest. 

^^Let me come too,” said Specky, and Bill bounded 
like a ball on to the floor, and slid his hand into Kirsty’s. 

With Specky capering in front they stole softly down^ 
stairs. 

How odd and unfamiliar the house looked in this 


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93 

curious light of sunshine and drawn blinds. Behind 
closed doors people were sleeping. It seemed to Kirsty 
that the furniture too looked as if it were asleep. 
Through the day it seemed alert and interested; now it 
was terribly inanimate. 

They found the key in the cupboard lock, and soon they 
were all inside, for it was a big square cupboard, almost 
like a small room. 

If Miss Wotherspoon allowed herself to be proud of 
anything it was of this cupboard, and she kept it in a 
state of intense neatness. Here had she ranged on the 
shelves the more sprightly form of stores—gaily coloured 
tins of fruit, boxes of dates, tins of biscuits. 

Kirsty seized a box which bore the legend Rich Mixed 
and, the children eagerly watching, tried to open it by 
running her thumb-nail along the edge of the lid; but it 
seemed to be very securely papered down, and after hurt¬ 
ing her thumb she was forced to look for a knife. 

This meant opening every drawer in the sideboard, 
and the boys got so excited in the search that caution 
was forgotten, and Bill’s voice shrilly upbraided Specky 
for having got before him before Hirsty could silence 
him. 

The box was forced open at last, and there was revealed 
to the enraptured gaze of Specky and Bill rows of richly 
decorated biscuits. Kirsty, viewing them doubtfully, 
said, ^‘They look much too sugary for early morning. 
Only two. Bill, and two for Specky, and take the plain¬ 
est.” 

^T’ll take one with a sugar curl on it,” Bill said, brood¬ 
ing over the box, ^^and one of those long ones, for they 
are the biggest.” 

^^Don’t breathe on them so,” Specky advised him. ^T’ll 
choose now.” 

They were, all three, so absorbed in the biscuit-box 


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94 

tliat they did not hear the dining-room door open, and 
were aware of nothing until a voice said, ^^Mercyl 

Then they looked up and saw a shattering vision. 

Miss Wotherspoon stood in the doorway armed with a 
poker. Her head was muffled in a grey Shetland scarf, 
and she wore draped over her night-gown a bright red 
cashmere shawl that Bad belonged to her mother. She 
was a sufficiently arresting sight, and Kirsty and the boys 
cowered before her in silence. 

''What's all this?" she demanded, still gripping the 
poker threateningly. 

"It's all right. Miss Wotherspoon," Kirsty said sooth¬ 
ingly. "We're not the burglars you expected. The boys 
woke early, and I came down to get them some biscuits." 

Bill, after a glance at Miss Wotherspoon's face, quickly 
bit the sugar curl off his biscuit, as if determined that, 
whatever happened, he would make sure of that. 

"Sugar biscuits at this time in the morning!" Miss 
Wotherspoon's voice was bitter in its scorn. "It's well 
seen ye ken nothing about bairns. Miss. If ye had 
looked ye would have seen digestive biscuits in the next 
box. I suppose ye never thought ye would file the puir 
lambs' stomachs ? I doubt we'll all pay for this morning's 
work. I can feel my head beginning already—such a 
fright as I got 1" 

"Go back to bed then," said Kirsty, rising from her 
undignified attitude on the floor. "You've more than an 
hour before you need think of getting up." 

But Miss Wotherspoon shook her head with a martyred 
air. "When I'm up, I'm up. I'll just get dressed, and 
get on with ma work. Goodness knows there's enough to 
do," and she stalked awa; 5 >, her shawl trailing and the 
poker held like a sceptre. 

Kirsty withstood an impulse to giggle, and Specky said 
in his gentle voice, "Who is that lady?" 


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95 

''That,” said Kirsty, "is Miss Wotherspoon. She helps 
with the housework, and she isn’t very strong, so you 
must try not to worry her, or give her extra work. Come 
along now,” as she saw more questions coming, "back to 
bed you must go, and after this you shall have bread and 
butter in your room in case you waken early. ISTow let’s 
see which of us will go upstairs most quietly—like 
mice-” 

Kirsty did not attempt to sleep again. She sat by her 
window, and saw the world all shining with dew, and 
watched when the sun first struck the ripples of Tweed 
as it flowed to the old grey bridge. She heard the first 
stirrings of life in the village—the tinJca tinka tinh from 
the smiddy, the lowing of the cows going to be milked, 
the clatter of cans as they were brought to the back door, 
and Easie’s gay voice in badinage with the lad who 
brought them, all the cheerful morning sounds. She 
smelt the wood-smoke from newly kindled fires, and the 
incomparable freshness of a May morning. The day 
seemed a long time begun when she went down to the 
nine o’clock breakfast. 

Miss Carter was already in the dining-room with her 
three charges, bright-eyed, with shining hair, all agog for 
whatever the new day might hold for them. She looked 
her best in the morning, with her clear skin and frank 
brown eyes, and her slim, square shoulders held very 
straight. Specky was hanging out of the window, gazing 
rapturously at the Hope Water, while Barbara, anxious 
little sister, clung to his legs in case he fell out. 

When Miss Fanny came into the room Kirsty glanced 
at her somewhat anxiously as she gave her good morning. 

Things had not gone too well the night before when the 
children arrived. They had been taken into the gay white 
drawing-room where Miss Fanny sat knitting, wrapped 
as usual in fleecy shawls, and Barbara and Specky had 



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at once gone to her and greeted her politely. But Bill, 
Bad Bill, had lived up to his name. Seeing him hang 
back, Kirsty had thought him shy, and had said encour¬ 
agingly: 

‘‘That is Aunt Banny, Bill; go and shake hands with 
her.” 

But it was not shyness that troubled Bill. 

“That’s not Aunt Fanny,” he said, “that’s the sheep in 
Alice, the sheep what sat in the boat and knitted.” 

Barbara and Specky had stared at poor Miss Fanny, 
then turned horrified eyes to Kir sty, as if to say, “It’s 
dreadful of him to say it, but you must admit in fairness 
that he’s right”; and Kirsty, looking at her aunt’s kind, 
long face and rather bent, fleecy back, couldn’t but own 
that the likeness was there. 

Miss Fanny had, happily, not understood the allusion 
(she thought Alice either in Wonderland or Through the 
LooJcing-Glass only fit for imbecile minds), but she had 
mistrusted Bill at the first glance. The unwinking stare 
of the sea-blue eyes, the untidy yellow hair, the heavy 
jowl gave her an uncomfortable feeling. Barbara and 
Specky were nice children, good-looking and with pretty 
manners, but she determined that she would see as little 
as possible of Bill. 

“Porridge!” said Barbara. “Kow I know I’m in Scot¬ 
land. We didn’t get right stuff at Clapham; it was thick 
and had knots, not smooth like this.” 

As Bill finished the last spoonful of his porridge he 
looked at Kirsty and announced, “I shall call you Pie.” 

“Why Pie ?” asked Barbara and Specky together, while 
Miss Fanny paused in the act of buttering her toast and 
regarded him suspiciously. 

Bill refused to give a reason. 

“Then I must call you Pudding,” Kirsty said. 

Bill took a drink of milk. 


PINK SUGAR 


97 

^^You will call me William,” he said, turning his head 
away in a final manner. ^^May I go out now to the gar¬ 
den 

Kirsty said she would take them out that morning while 
Miss Carter unpacked and got things in their places. 
Every other morning, except Saturday and Sunday, they 
would have lessons for two hours. 

‘^Bill rests at eleven,” Miss Carter told Kirsty, as they 
were leaving the house. 

Bill turned on her angrily. ^‘Why did you tell Pie 
that ? Don’t you know in Scotland nobody rests ?” and 
he flew after Specky, who had gone, as if drawn by a 
magnet, straight to the shining Hope Water. 


Chapter X 

“An’ naebody for dacency but barely two or three.” 

R. L. 8. 

W ITH punctilious politeness Kirsty returned her 
calls the week after they were made. 

One bright afternoon she ordered Mr. Dickson’s 
wagonette, regretfully watched Miss Carter and the chil¬ 
dren start for a walk without her, impressed on Miss 
Panny the fact that she was very lucky to he let off pay¬ 
ing calls and allowed to sit comfortably at home, put on a 
new coat and skirt and a pair of clean gloves, and 
mounted the high step of her chariot as if it had been a 
tumbril. 

Mr. Dickson was a wizened little man, with a coat 
much too large for him, and a passionate craving to know 
what church every stranger he met belonged to. He took 
a wide view of a coachman’s duties, and Kirsty found 
that he attended less to his horse than to her. By way 
of amusing her he related the family history (so far as it 
was known to him) of the inmates of the different houses 
they called at, turning half round on his seat to do so. 
If snubbed in his amiable efforts to entertain he was 
apt to fall asleep. The horse, a sedate animal (James by 
name), did not seem to mind much what his master did. 
The first call was at Ketherton Manse. 

As they drove up the drive Mr. Dickson waved his 
whip condescendingly. 

^^Ay, M’Candlish has gotten his place rale doss. Kae 
credit to him—^wi’ twae gairdeners. His faither left him 
an awfu’ siller, ye ken; he’s mair like a laird than a min- 
98 


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99 


ister. He canna preach ava, puir soul, but he stands up 
and maks a fine noise, an’ his folk are quite weel pleased. 
They dinna ken a guid sermon when they hear it.” Mr. 
Dickson leant over towards Kirsty and said impressively, 
whiles even doot if M’Candlish kens what conversion 
means.” 

^Heally?” Kirsty said, feeling miserably ill at ease, 
and casting apprehensive glances at the windows of the 
house. 

There was no one in at the Manse, so they proceeded 
on their way to Edmonston Hall. 

^‘Kew folk,” said Mr. Dickson, as James slowly climbed 
the steep drive. ^‘Rich. That’s aboot a’ ye can say o’ 
them. I whiles see Sir Andrew (as they ca’ him) slinkin’ 
aboot—a rale hame-ower wee body. The first time I 
saw him I said to ma wife, ^Dinna tell me that that wee 
pepper-pot’s laird o’ Edmonston.’ The wife’s a muckle 
strappin’ wumman, but I tell ye what it is, things are 
come to a bonnie cripis when folk like that get titles an’ 
ca’ themselves gentry.” 

He let his whip play angrily in the air round James’s 
patient head. 

^^Ma word, if Robbie Burns was here to mak a song 
aboot the new gentry! That wud sort them!” 

He stared superciliously at the butler who opened the 
door, and was obviously delighted when he heard that 
there was no one at home. 

^^Juist as weel,” he remarked to Kirsty, when once 
more she had climbed to her uneasy seat. ^Whaur’ll ye 
try next ?” 

^^Take me to Cherrytrees, please,” Kirsty said, with 
dignity. 

will that.” Mr. Dickson flapped the reins so smartly 
that James actually broke into something resembling a 
canter. ‘‘Whoa there. Canny noo, James. Ye’re ower 



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croose, ma man, when ye’re visitin’ the gentry; ye’ll hae 
to come doon to the cairt again the morn, mind that.” 

Mr. Dickson leant over to Kirsty. ‘^He’s an awfu’ 
happy horse, James,” he said; ‘^ye canna help likin’ him. 
But he hes nae gumption, kinna senseless. !No like Bob. 
Bob had a’ the sense in the warld. Eh, he was a fine 
beast, I miss him yet. When he de’ed I wrote a—a— 
what d’ye ca’ thae things on gravestones ? Ay, a epitaph. 
This was it: 

^Here lies Bob, 

He de’ed on the road 

Cornin’ frae Skarlin’ Fair, b’Goad.’ 

What d’ye think o’ that for a epitaph?” 

^Wery good,” said Kirsty. suppose it was true— 
that he died on the road, I mean ?” 

‘‘True as daith. . . . Ay.” 

He was silent until they drew near Cherrytrees, when 
he began to give Kirsty some of his ideas on the Anthony 
Hays. 

the Hays, faither and son, hev been at Cherry- 
trees a lang time, an’ this yin (Mr. Anthony, he’s aye 
called, though there are nae mair o’ them leevin’) an’ his 
wife are weel-likit folk. Deed, I whiles think that in the 
next warld they’ll get the ^woe’ that comes to ye when 
all men think well o’ ye. It wud hardly be fair, to ma 
thinkin’, to let folk hae sic a comfortable down-settin’ in 
this warld, an’ guid health and length o’ days, and then 
gie them a place far ben in Heaven.” 

^^But why,” said Kirsty, ^Vhy, if they live so as to 
deserve an entrance into Heaven, should the fact that 
they have been comfortable in this world keep them 
out?” 

^^Because,” Mr. Dickson said, ^^it’s fine an’ easy to be 
guid if ye’re comfortable.” 


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it?’’ murmured Kirsty uncertainly, remembering 
Becky Sharp’s remark that she could be good if she had 
£2000 a year. don’t quite see that. If one is very 
poor and ill and miserable this world can’t mean much 
to one, and Heaven will shine all the more alluring, 
whereas if one has everything this world can give it’s 
only a vexation to think of leaving it.” 

Mr. Dickson regarded Kirsty condescendingly. 

“Of coorse it’s no to be expeckit that ye can under¬ 
stand muckle aboot religion, you that’s lived maist o’ your 
life in furrin pairts. There’s only wan thing that’ll get 
ye into Heaven.” 

“Well, why shouldn’t rich people have it as well as 
any one else ?” Kirsty asked. 

“Weel, ye ken fine that the Bible says it’s as difficult 
for a rich man to get into Heaven as a camel to get 
through the eye of a needle—an’ that juist means it canna 
be done. James, here, couldna get through the eye o’ a 
needle, let alane a camel. ... Of course, if a man sells 
a’ that he has—^but he could hardly be expeckit to dae 
that aither. I’ve aye hed a guid deal o’ sympathy wi’ 
the Rich Young Euler-” 

“Well,” said Kirsty, feeling that she had erred in allow¬ 
ing herself to be drawn into such a profitless discussion, 
“it isn’t for us to judge our neighbours, rich or poor.” 

But Mr. Dickson was not so easily quelled. He gave 
his whip an airy whirl and said, “Whae’s judgin’? 
They can a’ gang whaur they like for me.—Weel, here’s 
Cherrytrees. . . . The man wha keeps the gate-hoose is 
mairrit on a cousin o’ ma wife’s. I’m sure I hope ye’ll 
get in here. We could baith be daein’ wi’ a cup’ o’ tea.” 

But again Kirsty was rebuffed on the doorstep. 

Mr. Dickson’s face as he saw her turn away from the 
door was a study. Kirsty was guiltily aware that he had 
counted on putting up James and having a good tea and 


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a talk with the man who had married his wife’s cousin, 
and she hardly dared look at him as she said with what 
spirit she could muster, would like to go to Muirhurn 
Manse now, please.” 

^^Muirhurn Manse!” said Mr. Dickson. ^^Ye needna 
bother. I saw Mr. Brand wi’ ma ain een this verra day 
gaun awa to Priorsford in the nine train to attend the 
Presbytery meetin’, an’ Miss Brand wi’ him.” 

^^Oh—well, I want to go to Hopewaterfoot.” 

She bundled into her seat, and went off in the swaying 
wagonette, feeling like a pea in a drum. 

At first she was left to her own meditations, for her 
charioteer was evidently too disgusted at the non-success 
of their afternoon outing to indulge in any more thelogi- 
cal discussions; but in a little he said, without looking 
round, apropos of nothing that had gone before: 

^^I’ve kent Miss Merren (that’s Mrs. Strang) a’ her 
days. This while back she’s ta’en to writin’ ” (he says it, 
thought Kirsty, as if it were an evil habit), ^Tut she’s no 
a bad body for a’ that. I mind her when she was wee 
Miss Merren Stair fleein’ aboot on her powny like a wild 
thing. She mairret when she was but a lassie, an’ her 
man was killed in the Boer War, an’ syne she cam’ back 
to Hopewaterfoot wi’ her laddie, a bairn in airms.” 
Mr. Dickson turned round, and looking sternly at Kirsty 
continued, ^Tt’s a maist confounded thing, war ... I 
was fond o’ that laddie. He cam’ to the shop to spend 
his pennies. He was terrible camsteerie, but there was 
nae ill in him. I used to help him to howk wurrums in 
oor midden—he was daft aboot fishin’ of coorse. ... He 
cam’ to see us the nicht afore he gaed awa’ to France. 
He had been that feared that the War wud be feenished 
afore he got oot, an’ he was neither to hand nor bind 
aboot gettin’ awa’. He stood up to show us his uniform, 
his buttons that new and bricht. ... He went oot to 


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Maister Erchie’s regiment (that’s the laird, ye ken), an’ 
the first day he was in the trenches he was shot through 
the heid. . . . When they buried him the buttons hedna 
got time to dim. . . 

‘Toor, poor Mrs. Strang,” said Kirsty. 

^^Ay. She never said onything, but she must ha’ missed 
him sair. I ken I missed him.—D’ye want oot here, or 
wull I gang round by the drive ?” 

They had come to the wicket-gate in the high beech 
hedge, which was a short cut through the garden to Mrs. 
Strang’s house. 

^^Oh, yes, please let me out here,” Kirsty said. ^^And 
you might wait for a few minutes to see if I get in, and if 
I do, just go home. I shall walk. Thank you very 
much.” Without waiting to see the effect of this com¬ 
mand, she walked up the flagged path through the rose 
garden, and tirled on the knocker of the door. 

Mrs. Strang was giving tea to Eobert Brand when 
Kirsty was shown in, and she rose to greet her visitor 
with real pleasure, crying, was just wishing some one 
would come in, and first came Mr. Brand, and now you, 
the very people I would have chosen.” 

Kirsty sank into the chair offered her. 

^‘You couldn’t have a more grateful visitor,” she as¬ 
sured her hostess. feel exactly as the dove from the 
Ark must have done when it could find no resting-place. 
I have paid three calls, and been turned from the door 
at each place.” 

^^Eeturning calls, are you ? Good child. You must be 
exhausted. But on the other hand, you might have been 
more exhausted if you' had found every one in. Anyway, 
it was luck for me that they were out, or you would never 
have got my length. Eobert, push Miss Gilmour’s chair 
nearer the table. That’s better. How did you come ?” 

Kirsty began to laugh. ^Tn Mr. Dickson’s wagonette. 


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And he treated me to his views on the life and character 
of every one we called on. I didn’t mean to get a con¬ 
veyance of any sort, hut Mr. Dickson will drive me to 
it.” 

^^Dickson’s a great fellow,” Mr. Brand said. ^‘He’s 
one of my elders, you know, and he keeps me toeing the 
line. I simply dare not preach an old sermon. He sits in 
the front seat, and fixes me with an eye like a hawk.” 

can see him,” said Kirsty. ^^By the way, he told me 
you were in Priorsford to-day, when I threw out a sugges¬ 
tion about calling on your sister.” 

‘^So I was, and Bebecca too, and we wouldn’t have 
been back yet if Colonel Home hadn’t brought us up in 
his car. . . . How are you liking us. Miss Gilmour?—I 
mean the countryside and the folk of it.” 

^Well—” 

^Hhat sounds dubious.” 

Kirsty smiled. ^^You’re not quite what I expected you 
to be, I confess. All my knowledge of country people has 
been got out of books, and I think I expected to create 
more of a sensation than I seem to have done. I mean— 
I thought a new-comer would arouse interest, some curi¬ 
osity perhaps; but no. I don’t think my coming made 
even a tiny splash in the Muirburn pool.—And the vil¬ 
lage people aren’t like book village people. I think I 
thought I would find a Jess and a Leeby in every cottage, 
but so far I’ve come across nothing but very stolid ma¬ 
trons. They seem to want nothing from me, not even a 
visit! But perhaps as I get to know them better-” 

^^Aren’t you thinking of getting a car?” Mrs. Strang 
broke in. She was pouring out the tea, and not listening 
to the conversation. 

^^Ho,” said Kirsty, making room for her cup on the 
table. don’t want a car—it would spoil things so. If 
we had a car we would need a chauffeur, and to give him 



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something to do we would have to he flying all the time 
about the countryside, worrying people for luncheon and 
tea, and all our quiet life would be spoiled. Besides, my 
aunt doesn’t care for motoring.” 

^^I’m afraid,” Mrs. Strang said, ^^that I like rushing 
about the countryside. I’d order a car at once if I could 
afford it. Wouldn’t you. Bob ?” 

^^I’d order two,” said Mr. Brand recklessly. 

^^As a matter of fact I have ordered one,” Mrs. Strang 
confessed. “I went to the motor show in Glasgow, simply 
to look—and I fell. But it’s a very little one, and I shall 
drive it and clean it myself. Have a scone-” 

Kirsty took a scone. hadn’t thought of that,” she 
said. might get a small one and be my own chauffeur. 
It’s such fun to do things for oneself.” 

‘^There speaks the person who has always been waited 
on,” said Mr. Brand. 

^^Oh, I know, but if you had spent most of your life 
travelling about and living in hotels and having every¬ 
thing done for you, you too would And pleasure in the 
most ordinary things that seem to other people pure 
weariness. . . . Yes, I should like some jam.” 

^^Oh,” cried Mrs. Strang suddenly, ^^have the children 
come 

Kirsty beamed. ^^They have.” 

^^And what are they like? As nice as you expected?” 

Kirsty shook her head. daren’t begin about them 
in case of boring you to the bone. You see, children are 

new to me too- What I want to say is that this is the 

flrst time I have ever had tea with an author, and I feel it 
to be a great occasion.” 

^/So it is!” Mr. Brand assured her. 

won’t be mocked,” said Mrs. Strang. ‘‘Kobert, I 
don’t believe you ever even attempt to read my works.” 
She turned to Kirsty and pointed a Anger at the minister. 




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domestic fiction lie abhors; the more vivid forms 
of crime are all be cares about/’ 

Robert Brand protested. ^^It isn’t true, Miss Gilmour, 
believe me. I could pass an examination on any one of 
Mrs. Strang’s books.” 

Merren Strang went on as if be bad not spoken. 

once knew a bisbop wbo cared for nothing but read¬ 
ing the most lurid ^shockers.’ And, after all, it is only 
natural that the clergy should like highly coloured fiction. 
It brings a brightness into their lives-” 

^^Otherwise lacking,” Robert finished. ^^But it’s true— 
not only about tuppence-coloured. I simply don’t know 
how a country parson can exist who doesn’t love books 
and gardens—gardens for the spring and summer, books 
for the winter.” 

suppose,” said Kirsty, ^diving in the country in 
winter you do get through a lot of books ?” 

, ^^Ah, you don’t know anything about it yet. Wait till 
you see the doors shut and the lamps lit by four o’clock. 
You need to be pretty good friends with yourself, I can 
tell you, to live in the country in winter.” 

^^Then do you read all the evening?” 

^^Three evenings of the week I’m out, but every other 
evening I work till eight-thirty, which is supper-time. 
I’m trying to write a sort of history of Upper Tweeddale 
in my spare moments. After supper I give myself to 
enjoyment for an hour or so. A clear fire, a bright lamp, 
a galloping yarn, and U wadna ca’ the King ma cousin,’ 
as they say about here.” 

^ Oh, I know,” cried Kirsty, her eyes sparkling. ^U’m 
so looking forward to my first winter in Little Phantasy. 

• • • I^’you remember Robert Louis’ description of read¬ 
ing by lamplight ? coming in from a patrol on the hills 
with the shepherd, and sitting down to a long evening by 
the fire with the Wicomte’! And he tells how every now 



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and again he would rise from his hook and pull aside 
the blind, and see the snow and the glittering hollies in 
the garden, and the moonlight on the white hills, then he 
would turn back to the crowded field of life on the page 
of his book.—Somehow that gives me a most happy feel¬ 
ing. It’s so lovely to think of all the sunshine and laugh¬ 
ter that can lie between the two boards of a book.” 

The minister nodded. ^^But what I object to is the 
small allowance of either given us in these days. Each 
book seems drearier than the one before.” 

'The brightest things in Baudelaire are anything else 
hut gay/ Mrs. Strang quoted. ^^Have some more tea, 
Robert ? Mo ? Don’t you know that it is hopelessly out 
of date to write as if there was anything decent left in 
the world ? You simply must not let either your charac¬ 
ters or your readers be happy.” 

^^But your books are happy,” Kirsty objected. 

^^Oh, but I don’t pretend to count. Are you going, 
Robert ? Tell Rebecca to come and see me when she has 
time. I shall be able to take her to Priorsford to shop 
when I get my little car. Yes. Take any books you 
like.” 

Robert Brand went off happily with two new books 
under his arm, and Merren Strang looked after him affec¬ 
tionately. 

^^There goes a good fellow,” she said. “A righteous 
man, if ever there was one.” 

Kirsty nodded. think so too. And he preaches so 
well. . . . Isn’t it odd that he should be satisfied with 
such a small place?” 

^^Is he satisfied ? He knows he hasn’t strength at pres¬ 
ent for anything very strenuous. And this isn’t a small 
place. His visiting often means cycling or walking 
twelve miles. And he doesn’t spare himself. He has a 
week-night service every week up the Moors as well as 


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in Mnirburn. And lie is doctor and lawyer and every¬ 
thing to the shepherd folk—as his father was before him. 
It^s amazing what a minister can mean in a country place! 
But come and be cosy and let’s have a talk. You don’t 
need to go yet awhile, need you 

don’t want to go,” Kirsty said truthfully. . . . 
expect you are sick of having people gush about your 
books, but you don’t know how thrilled I am to be here.” 
She looked round the pleasant homely room. ^^Is this 
where you write?” 

^^Oh, I write anywhere.” 

^^But—I thought authors needed perfect quiet, and a 
large writing-table, and shelves of books for reference, and 
that sort of thing.” 

Mrs. Strang laughed. ^^Perhaps real writers do. I’m 
afraid I’m dreadfully disappointing. I do wish for your 
sake that I had been a real literary lion with a wonderful 
writing-room filled with signed photographs of other writ¬ 
ers and all manner of things that would have impressed 
you. I’m only an author by chance, so to speak. I feel 
the merest amateur.” 

‘What made you begin to write ?—This sounds like an 
interview.” 

Merren Strang lay back in her chair and smiled at 
Kirsty. “I’m sure I don’t know what made me write. 
It was in the War. I did what work I could, but I had 
some spare time when one simply did not dare to have 
spare time—and the thought came to me to write a book, 
something very simple that would make pleasant reading 
—^you see there’s nothing of Art for Art’s sake about me. 
I thought of all the sad people, and the tired and anxious 
people, and the sick people. Have you ever had any one 
lie very ill in a nursing home while you haunted lending 
libraries and bookshops for something that would help 
through sleepless nights for him ? If you have, you will 


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know how difficult it is to get the right kind of books. 
Merely clever books are no use, for a very sick person has 
done with cleverness. You need a book very much less 
and very much more than that. So I tried my hand and 
produced The Penny Whistle, I had no thought of 
money or anything else when I wrote it, and because it 
was a real cry from my own heart it touched the hearts 
of quite a lot of people. So I went on writing. I have 
only the smallest talent—about as much as would lie on 
a threepenny piece!—but if I can give pleasure to some 
I^m glad and grateful.’’ 

Kirsty sighed. ‘‘I think it must be the most delightful 
thing to feel that you give pleasure to people. Do you 
get letters from grateful readers ? I expect you do.” 

Merren nodded. ‘The world’s not as full of clever 
people as you would think, it’s only that the few there 
are are very vocal. The world is full of simple plain peo¬ 
ple who like plain things, and who are often very be¬ 
wildered and unhappy. Perhaps my books are a sort of 
soothing syrup, I don’t know. It’s a stupid subject any¬ 
way. Tell me about the household at Little Phantasy.” 

“That will keep,” said Kirsty. “Won’t you please tell 
me some books to get? The books sent from the library 
are a menace. Aunt Fanny was almost in hysterics over 
the last lot, and has gone back to-day to a book she had 
in her childhood, Anna Lee: the Maiden, the Wife, and 
the Mother! I never tire of the old books myself, and 
have just gone back to Jane Austen. We get all the Lives 
that come out—^Aunt Fanny feels safe with them—but 
I ordered a novel I saw raved about by the reviewers, 
and it is the grimiest thing I’ve ever read.” 

“How was it reviewed?” Merren asked with interest. 
“When you read that a certain novel deals with a subject 
in a ‘courageous yet delicate manner,’ you are pretty safe 
to give it a pass.” 


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Kirstj lauglied. wish I had given this a pass. It 
is diabolically clever, hut it slimes over things like a 
snail. But I’m sandwiching it with Crossriggs —do you 
ever sandwich hooks?—and I find that a most excellent 
plan. It’s like coming out with hot, tired eyes from be¬ 
ing steeped in heavy scent and blinded by lights and deaf¬ 
ened by garish noises into clean salt air.” 

know. I know. I know Crossriggs almost by heart. 
I read it once a year, and am always desperately sorry 
when I finish it.” 

^^And,” Kirsty went on, ^fit isn’t as if the Findlaters 
were in the least mawkish or miss-ish. They can beat the 
^courageous but delicate’ writers at their own game. Did 
you ever get such a feeling of the utter badness of a 
woman as those two spinster ladies give you of the girl, 
Dolly Orranmore, that poor Yane is jockeyed into marry¬ 
ing ?” 

^Tt’s amazing. But they make you hate nastiness, 
while the other kind of writer buzzes round it—like a 
bluebottle round tainted meat. I often wonder if our 
strong novelists really meet the people they write about— 
the ape and tiger sort of people. I must have led a dread¬ 
fully circumscribed life, for I’ve only met decent people. 
It is very cramping to a novelist only to know one side 
of life. I read a review the other day which began, ^This 
is a book about good, gentle, scrupulous people who live 
on the bright side of life.’ Those are the sort I have 
always known, and I’m afraid if I tried to make the other 
kind ^out of my own head,’ they would be most uncon¬ 
vincing villains.” 

^^Tell me,” said Kirsty, ^^aren’t you frightfully nervous 
when you bring out a book what the critics will say ?” 

am rather—it is like sending a poor little unpro¬ 
tected child out into a cold world. But, on the whole, 
the critics have been wonderfully good to me, though I’m 


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not an interesting person to review. After yonVe said 
my books are pleasant there isn’t much more to say, is 
there 

^^Lots. But don’t you think it must make a great dif¬ 
ference where and how a critic reads a book ? If the cook 
has influenza, and the dinner is bad, and his wife cross, 
he can’t be in a good mood, and the book will suffer in 
consequence.” 

^^One would think so,” Merren agreed. ‘^And then, of 
course, there is always the danger of a book falling into 
wrong hands. A budding Bolshevist gets an old-fash¬ 
ioned, rather prim story—he rends it, naturally; a prim- 
minded gentleman with a love for order and decency gets 
a ^courageous’ book, and with a howl of rage he flies 
at it.” 

see,” said Kirsty, beginning to pull on her gloves. 
^^It’s all very difficult, but if critics would read the books 
in bed they would always And something good in them. 
I don’t know how it is, but even a book which I didn’t 
think much of by the light of day, when read in bed re¬ 
veals all sorts of excellences. I read in bed every night 
for half an hour by the clock, and every book I read seems 
a masterpiece. How I really must go. I’ve stayed an 
unconscionable time. Would you have been writing?” 

^T!^ot I.” Herren whisked the very idea airily away. 
‘^1 never write if I can help it. I welcome every interrup¬ 
tion. . . . Listen to me, child. I want you to come here 
very often, and I want you to bring the children, and do 
you think you could persuade Miss Fanny to come? 
I’ve fallen in love with her, woolly wraps and all!—If 
you wait a second I’ll get my hat and walk home a bit of 
the way with you.” 


Chapter XI 

. . Gie me a Border burn 

That canna rin wi’oot a turn.” 

J. B. Selkirk. 

O F all the lovely glens in the pleasant land of Upper 
Tweeddale there is none more lovely than Hope- 
carton. To reach it you must leave the highroad at the 
beginning of Hopecarton village (it consists only of six 
houses and a shop which sells more acid drops for a penny 
than a shop has ever been known to do), turn to your left, 
and cross the bridge, pass the school and the schoolhouse, 
follow the burn for a hundred yards or so, and you will 
find yourself in the ^^greenest glen shone on by the sun.” 

It is narrow to start with, and the hills rise steeply on 
either side, but as you follow the burn the glen widens, 
and there are stretches of emerald turf running into the 
heather, banks of fragrant thyme, and one white haw¬ 
thorn-tree which now, in the sweet o’ the year, stands 
snow-white, enchanted. 

To this glen one shining day in the beginning of June 
Kirsty Gilmour brought her household to hold high revel. 

There was no special reason for having a picnic. It 
was nobody’s birthday, nobody had been specially good, 
nobody had done anything brilliant in the way of lessons; 
but on the other hand nobody had been specially bad, 
the sun was shining on the Hope Water, turning it to 
molten gold, and Kirsty felt that something was due to 
the glad earth, and proposed a day by the Homecarton 
Burn. Having said it there was no turning back. 

With a shout Specky cast his books on the floor and 
112 


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113 


fled to see that his fishing tackle was in good order. Bar¬ 
bara threw her arms round Kirsty^s neck, crying ''Darling 
Pie,” while Miss Carter with alacrity began to tidy up. 

Bill had hardly begun to take lessons seriously, he only 
toyed with them for an hour at a time, and this morn¬ 
ing he was accompanying Tod, the gardener, as he went 
about his work in the sunny garden. Here Specky found 
him and told him of the picnic. 

To expect enthusiasm from Bill was to court dis¬ 
appointment. He rarely showed any feeling except, per¬ 
haps, rage. When Bill was angry the whole house was 
aware of it. But Miss Carter assured Kirsty that he was 
really improving. He had been three weeks at Little 
Phantasy, and had only made two bad breaks. Once, 
roused beyond endurance by some fancied slight, he had 
bitten Specky, and another time he had thrown his mug 
at Barbara, missing his mocking sister and deluging poor 
Miss Fanny. That lady had been much shaken by the 
incident. 

‘Won’t it be fine. Bill?” said Specky coaxingly. ‘Tie 
says it’s a lovely burn.” 

“Will you give me a turn with your rod?” Bill de¬ 
manded. 

“Yes,” Specky promised rather ruefully. 

Easie, when interviewed, flung herself with enthusiasm 
into the thought of a picnic; indeed, she was so high- 
flown in her ideas that Kirsty had to hold her to the 
ground. When the offer of roasted fowls had to be de¬ 
clined owing to the impossibility of procuring and roast¬ 
ing anything in the space of one hour, they finally decided 
on cold lamb, a salad, plenty of bread and butter and 
fruit; and Easie promised that Kellie would bicycle over 
in time for tea with a baking of scones and pancakes. 

They drove in Mr. Dickson’s wagonette, Specky beside 
the driver, deeply interested in all he could tell him of 


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the trout in the different burns. Bill (his melodeon by 
his side) sat between Kirsty and Miss Carter. When¬ 
ever their attention was engaged he leaned over and rat¬ 
tled a stick between the spokes of the wheels. Barbara 
and the lunch occupied the opposite seat. 

Miss Banny had declined to accompany them. She 
loathed picnics, and could see no enjoyment in eating 
out-of-doors. It seemed to her little short of imbecile 
to leave a well-cooked meal in a comfortable dining¬ 
room to perch on a tuft of heather with some cold meat. 
She had seen the party leave with a feeling of satisfac¬ 
tion : there would be peace for a few hours anyway. 

Hot, she would have told you, that she disliked the 
children, poor things, but she was too old for the restless 
atmosphere that stirring children give to a house. They 
wearied her. Specky was her favourite; there was a 
gentleness about Specky that endeared him to every one. 
Barbara, with the best possible intentions, was something 
of a destroying angel in the house. What she touched 
she generally broke, and her belongings were thrown 
about in a most admired disorder. Miss Banny would 
have been the first to admit that she was a most affection¬ 
ate and warm-hearted child, but she dreaded her em¬ 
braces. When Barbara rushed to hug her the poor lady 
retreated from her as from a charging bull. 

As for Bill, Miss Banny avoided his society whenever 
possible. 

By five o’clock in the afternoon the picnic was ap¬ 
proaching a conclusion. It had been a highly successful 
outing. The cold lamb and salad washed down by ginger- 
beer had been excellent; and after it they had played a 
new and thrilling game. Barbara was a fervent Jacobite 
at this time, and as Specky subscribed to all his sister’s 
opinions, it followed that he was the same, and they 


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decided that Jacobites’’ was the only game for this glen 
of glens. 

At first there was some friction between Barbara and 
Specky as to who would play the coveted part of the 
young Prince. Specky claimed it by right of sex, but 
Barbara overbore him by the weight of the arguments 
that she brought forward as to her superior height and 
strength and agility, and Specky, who ever in bis right 
band carried gentle peace, meekly gave in, merely re¬ 
marking, don’t see why you can’t be Flora Macdonald, 
when you’re a girl anyway.” 

^^Ho! Flora Macdonald!” said Barbara disdainfully. 

It was finally decided that Specky would be the gentle 
Locbiel, while Bill was offered the somewhat ungrateful 
part of Murray of Broughton. 

^^Bill, will you he Murray of Broughton?” Barbara 
asked, murmuring quickly to Kirsty, ^^Don’t say any¬ 
thing about him being a traitor.” 

It is doubtful whether Bill had ever heard the word 
^ffraitor,” and certainly he had never heard of Mr. Secre¬ 
tary Murray, but he gravely nodded his acceptance of the 
part. 

^^Shall I be Mrs. Murray ?” Kirsty suggested helpfully, 
only to be promptly put in her place by Barbara, who 
told her, ‘^You can’t be her. You and Carty must be 
the abominable English soldiers looking for the Prince.” 

So they played, and found it a most pleasing game for 
a sunny afternoon on the hillside, that pitiful, beautiful 
story of love and loyalty. 

After much lurking among heather-bushes, and crossing 
and recrossing the water, hotly pursued by the brutal 
and licentious soldiery, tea was a very grateful thought. 
In the Prince’s camping-place a fire was already lit, and 
Specky and Bill squatted beside it feeding it carefully 
with twigs, while Barbara took the kettle some distance 


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away to fill it at a well she had discovered which bubbled 
out crystal-clear water. 

When N’ellie arrived, hot and important, with Easie’s 
contributions to the feast, the kettle was just ‘^coming 
through,” and she was invited to remain to help to eat 
the feather-light scones and pancakes. Miss Carter be¬ 
ing an expert with picnic fires looked after the tea-mak¬ 
ing. Kirsty, watching her quick, deft movements ad¬ 
miringly, thought what a capable creature this girl was. 
She had settled at once into her place at Little Phantasy. 
She was never in the way, but always there when she 
was wanted. The children liked and respected her. Miss 
Eanny found her sympathetic, the servants admitted that 
instead of making extra work she was a help to them. 
And she was pretty and young and light-hearted, alto¬ 
gether a very delightful addition to the household. 

can’t call you Miss Carter,” Kirsty told her. ‘^May 
I call you Stella?” 

‘^Ko, please don’t. I hate my name, really. Stella 
Carter sounds so theatrical somehow. If you’d call me 
'Carty’ as the children do I would like it.” 

So Carty she was to them all. 

They had tea by the burn at the point by the white 
hawthorn where it widened into a shallow, glittering 
stream. 

Just as they were beginning Specky pointed out two 
figures coming down the glen. 

^Shepherds probably,” said Kirsty, buttering a scone 
for Bill. 

'Tishers perhaps,” Specky said hopefully, but when 
the men came nearer it was seen that they were neither 
shepherds nor fishers but Colonel Home and the Eev. 
Eobert Brand. They stopped as they came up to the 
picnic-party and greeted Kirsty, who immediately asked 
them to have some tea. 


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117 


have two extra mugs,” she told them hospitably, 
^^and the tea isn’t very badly smoked. Miss Carter, may 
I introduce Colonel Home—Mr. Brand ? Colonel Home, 
these are the children I told you about . . . you re¬ 
member? Barbara, Specky—and this is Bill.” 

‘H’ve seen them from a distance,” her landlord said, 
as he shook hands. really don’t think I can wait 
for tea, thanks very much. I told Watson to bring 
the car to the bridge at four-thirty—it’s that time 
now.” 

He stood leaning on his stick, and Kirsty saw that 
his face was grey with fatigue. ^‘Tired to death,” she 
thought to herself, ^^pretending that he is a whole man 
and can walk the hills as well as ever he could.” Aloud 
she said, ^^It won’t hinder you long to drink a dish of 
tea, and Easie, our cook, has baked all sorts of fine things. 
See, this is a most convenient boulder to sit on. I’m 
sure Mr. Brand wants his tea.” 

‘H don’t deny it,” said that gentleman, and Colonel 
Home had perforce to remain. 

^^Have you come a long way ?” Kirsty asked him, when 
he was comfortably seated with his back against a young 
rowan-tree. 

Only over the hills, he told her, from Phantasy—noth¬ 
ing of a walk—at least once he would have thought it 
nothing. He had found Mr. Brand paying a pastoral 
visit to the shepherd’s cottage at Hope Head, and they 
had come down the glen together. 

‘Hs this still Phantasy?” asked Kirsty. 

^^Yes, this side of the glen; the bum is the march.” 
see,” said Kirsty, thinking that people who only 
answered questions put to them and volunteered nothing 
were extraordinarily difficult to converse with. 

^We’ve been here all day,” she told him. “Isn’t it a 
perfect place for a picnic? . . . We’ve been playing at 


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^Jacobites.’ Barbara was Prince Charlie, and I had the 
ignominious part of an English soldier.” 

She stopped. 

Colonel Home said, ^^Indeed!” 

^^The uninterested creature!” thought Kirsty. She 
looked round at the others. Mr. Brand was talking to 
Miss Carter. Specky had mounted a shaky wooden bridge 
that at this point spanned the burn, and was being fed 
by Barbara and Nellie, who hovered near him like the 
ravens of Elijah. 

^^You canH think how good things taste up here,” he 
told them. ^^Throw me up another chocolate biscuit. 
It^s a pity the bridge is too shaky for more than one at 
a time. Look out, Barbara, can’t you ? You nearly had 
me over.” 

Bill was sitting under a red parasol belonging to 
Kirsty, wiping his fingers delicately on a handkerchief. 

^‘You’ll fall into the stream,” he warned Specky. 

''Stream/' jeered Barbara. ‘^Can’t you say bur-r-n, you 
horrid little Englisher?” 

Kirsty laughed and turned to her companion. “Bar¬ 
bara is the most perfervid Scot. It comes from living 
in England. Poor Bill with his stream! ... I do love 
a burn, don’t you? Especially this kind of burn that 
twists and turns, sometimes so narrow that you can 
hardly see it for heather and ferns, and then widening 
out, sparkling and rippling.” 

She stopped and softly quoted: 

^ . Gie me a Border bum 

That canna rin wi’oot a turn.’ 

How Utterly heart-breaking to read that in a foreign land 
with no prospect of getting home! . . . This is my first 
spring in Scotland for twenty-two years.” 


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119 


“But surely,” said Colonel Home, “you can have had 
very little recollection of Scotland. You must have left 
it as a baby.” 

“I was eight, so you see I’m a very mature person 
now. It does seem grim to talk of years in twenties! 
But twenty-two years in England simply made me more 
of a Scot—and now I’m home. ... You have been a 
great deal away too, haven’t you?” 

“Yes. India, then South Africa, then India again. 

Then the War- But we creep back in the end, those 

of us who survive.” 

His tone was so bitter and hopeless that Kirsty found 
nothing to say in reply, and they sat and looked at the 
burn in silence. 

But the beauty of the glen, the sound of the water, the 
crying of birds, and the sweet-scented air moved Kirsty 
to sudden anger against the man beside her who, it seemed 
to her, was not grateful enough for the good things God 
had given him. She turned impulsively and cried: 

“You talk as if it were a hardship to come home to 
this. How can you! I don’t say the dead weren’t the 
lucky ones—they made a great finish—but think, won’t 
you, about all the poor men still lying in hospital, the 
blinded men, the men who lost their reason—and others 
trying to earn their bread and failing to find work. They 
were all willing to give their lives, but they were asked 
to do a much harder thing in these days—to live. An d 
here are you coming back to a place like Phantasy, the 
home of your people, with eyes to see this green glen, and 
—and- Oh, you should be down on your knees thank¬ 
ing Heaven fasting-” 

Then the spurt of anger died down, and with cold 
horror she realised that she had been scolding an almost 
perfect stranger, her landlord to boot, a man of years 
and honours. 




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forgive meshe faltered. know it’s no earthly 
business of mine. I can’t think what made me talk like 
that.” 

In her confusion she longed to rise and fly and hide 
somewhere her diminished head. She saw with envy 
Stella Carter in deep and evidently most amiable con¬ 
versation with Mr. Brand. Every one appeared to be 
having a good time but her luckless self and her moody 
companion. She dared not look at him to see how he had 
taken her tirade, but her relief was great when presently 
he said, ‘Down on my knees thanking Heaven fasting.’ 
Perhaps you’re right; I hadn’t realised that I was grous^ 
ing.” He was looking down as he spoke, picking some 
sprigs of wild thyme. “It’s a good thing at times to 
have one’s faults pointed out to one. Miss Gilmour. 
Thank you.” 

“Oh,” said Kirsty with a gasp. “Thank you. You’re 
such a—a naturally angry person anyway, that I thought 
you might never forgive my outrageous rudeness. I don’t 
make a habit of it, really I don’t. I may very likely 
never be rude to you again.” 

Colonel Home actually laughed, and Kirsty, feeling 
very much as the lamb must have done when it found 
itself on sociable terms with the lion, turned in order to 
create a diversion, and suggested to the company that 
it was time to pack up and go home. 

“I told Mr. Dickson to come to us to the village about 
six,” she said. 

“But it doesn’t feel as if it were time to go home,” 
Barbara complained. 

“Ko,” said Robert Brand, looking at his wrist watch. 
“In the sight of God it is only a quarter to five, but it’s 
a quarter to six summer-time.” 

It did seem a pity to leave, for the air was still warm. 


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and drowsy with the humming of bees, and sweet with 
the scent of thyme, and the sun was still high. 

Bill had come and seated himself by Colonel Home, 
his melodeon laid carefully beside him, and he now said 
confidentially, ^^Besides big Tweed IVe seen four wee 
Tweeds to-day.” 

“You mean,” Archie Home said gravely, “bums that 
run into Tweed.” 

Bill nodded, and then said, “Tell me a story, won^t 
you ?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know any stories.” 

“Oh, yes,” Bill said confidently, “you’re sure to.” 

Bound them the whaups were crying Pooelie, Pooelie. 
In desperation, hypnotised by the steady blue eyes fixed 
on him. Colonel Home began, “BEave you ever heard the 
story of the Kespectable Whaup?” 

“Tell us,” said Barbara, casting herself at his feet. 

He cleared his throat nervously. “I’m afraid I’m no 
hand at telling a story, but . . . Well, one day, in this 
very glen, a shepherd was coming home from church, 
and he found the place full of whaups all crying Pooelie, 
Pooelie, as they are doing to-day, only the place was thick 
with them. They flew so low that they brushed against 
him, and their wailing irritated him so that he shooed 
them away with his arms. But they only seemed to 
mock him and whistle in his very face, so he waved his 
stick at them, and threw bits of rock at them, and at last 
in desperation cried, 'Veil rax the birds' thrapples/ In 
a moment all the noise was hushed, and the glen was 
empty. Only one bird was left, standing on tall legs 
before him, its head bowed, and its beak touching the 
heather. 

“ ^What bird are ye V the shepherd asked, and the bird 
answered, H am a Eespectable Whaup,’ and went on to 


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tell tlie shepherd that he had broken in on the whaups’ 
family gathering. ^Once in a hundred years/ he said, 
‘we forgather for decent conversation, and here we are 
interrupted by a muckle swearin’ man—’ 

Colonel Home stopped. “Go on. Go on,” Barbara 
cried, “what did the whaup do next?” 

“Did it peck him,” Bill asked hopefully, “peck him 
with its long beak ?” 

Colonel Home turned desperately to Kirsty. “I say, 
you know, there’s no use in me going on with this. I’ve 
just realised that it’s very long and involved, and I can’t 
remember the end. . . . It’s called The Rime of True 
Thomas/^ 

“Oh,” moaned Barbara, ^'couldn't you remember just 
a little bit more?” 

The harassed story-teller suddenly had an idea. “I 
tell you what,” he said. “I have the book at Phantasy. 
I’ll give it to you, and you’ll read it for yourself.” 

“That will be better,” Kirsty agreed; but Bill said 
coldly that it would not be better, and that if he couldn’t 
hear the story now he never wanted to hear it at all. 

“We’ll read it aloud,” said Kirsty, ignoring the mal¬ 
content, “if Colonel Home will be kind enough to let us 
have it. How we must go.” 

“Let poor Bill play once,” Barbara begged, keen for 
anything that would delay the departure. 

“Well, once.” 

Bill took his melodeon, and succeeded in producing 
some weird and startling noises; then he looked up at the 
blue heavens, and, as if inspired by what he saw there, 
he began to chant: 

'Dh, you never saw the likes of it 
When the sky was set.” 

“The sun you meanf' corrected Specky. 


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123 


^^When tlie slcy was set/’ Bill repeated firmly. 

Archie Home’s eyes met Kirsty’s. 

‘^Don’t dare to laugh,” she whispered, ^fit’s as much 
as your life’s worth.” 

Happily Bill’s song went no further. ^^Stand up now,” 
he commanded. ‘^It’s God save the King/' and again 
he drew forth some discordant sounds, watching keenly 
the while to see that the whole company stood at atten¬ 
tion. 

After that everybody picked up something in the way 
of baskets and kettles, looked about to see that no un¬ 
sightly paper had been left lying about, and proceeded 
slowly towards the village. Hellie went first on her 
bicycle, then came Barbara and Specky laughing together 
and tugging at a basket containing the teacups, which 
they dropped more than once with an ominous crack 
which boded ill for the contents. 

Bill had attached himself to Colonel Home, and had 
bestowed on him the melodeon to carry. He insisted on 
holding the hand of his new friend, and also keeping 
firm hold of Kirsty’s hand. Robert Brand, walking with 
Miss Carter, watched Bill with amusement. 

^Tunny chap,” he said. like his odd little face. It 
is as if some one had brushed it up from the chin when 
it was soft. D’you see ? His mouth turns up, his little 
blunt nose turns up. . . . Isn’t it Theocritus who talks 
about the ^blunt-faced bees’?” 

“Is it? I’m afraid I don’t know Theocritus, but it’s 
deliciously true of Bill. He is a little blunt-faced B . . .” 
She turned and looked back to the glen. “What a day 
of days this has been. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it 
... I do think there is something enchanted about this 
place.” 

“There is,” said Robert Brand. “Don’t you know that 
Merlin once lived here. Merlin the Wizard ? Some day 


124 


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we must have another picnic, to Merlin’s haugh. . . . 
This place is full of fairy-lore. Isn’t it odd to think that 
there is practically nothing changed in this green glen 
since Merlin ^sang his wild songs in the morning of the 
world’ 

Stella Carter looked up at him and laughed. 

^Tt’s almost too much,” she said, ^^to come straight 
from Clapham to this!'* 


Chapter XII 

“One may be happy to a good degree, I think, in 
a faithful friend, or moderate fortune, and a retired 
life; further than this I know nothing to wish, but 
if there be anything beyond it, I wish it you.” 

Letters of Dorothy Osborne. 

T he next day Kirsty wrote to Blanclie Cunningham; 

. I feel ashamed of the letters I have written 
to you lately—hardly more than ^All well: how are you V 
But you know what it means to have children in the 
house; half the time is spent simply standing round, 
listening. I never tire of it; hut I get nothing else done. 

hope this is going to he a real letter. The children 
have gone off with Miss Carter and Hellie to climb 
Batchell Hill. They have tea with them, and won’t be 
back till nearly bed-time. It adds greatly to their pleas¬ 
ure to have Hellie accompany them, and there is noth¬ 
ing Hellie likes better. The merest hint, and cap and 
apron are thrown off and she is ready for the road. I’m 
afraid they will have rather a hard pull up, for there 
is a strong wind blowing. Indeed, it is cold and grey, 
like November, a dismal change after a fortnight of glow¬ 
ing sunshine. 

^Ht is quite a day for a fire, and Aunt Fanny is en¬ 
joying it, and enjoying, also, wearing an extra shawl. 
She has been reading diligently since luncheon at little 
books, but now her specs are off, and she is having a 
quiet sleep. It is odd how old she is at sixty-five; some 
women are quite girlish at that age, anxious to share in 
all the fun, but she is content with the chimney-corner. 
It amazed me to hear the other night from Aunt Fanny’s 
125 


126 


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own lips that she had once been engaged to be married. 
I don’t know why I should have been amazed, for she is 
a pretty, at least a pleasant-looking, woman now, and 
forty odd years ago she must have been an absolute duck. 
What did people wear forty-five years ago ? Bustles and 
chignons and things like that ? I can picture Aunt Fanny, 
with a dress very tight about the waist and humpy be¬ 
hind (like the pictures in an old Punch), and her hair 
all curled and puffed, and a locket round her neck, being 
very sweet and gentle and a little coy to a young man 
with a frock-coat and whiskers. 

^^She was vague about why the engagement had been 
broken off (I verily believe she has forgotten!), mur¬ 
mured something a1x)ut a hasty temper, and ^no reason 
for jealousy,’ and owned that perhaps she had been 
^fiighty.’ Somehow I can’t help thinking that it was 
rather a good thing Aunt Fanny did not marry. I am 
sure a husband would always have been to her more of a 
nuisance than anything else; and there is no doubt she 
has no real liking for children. Wben the wiskered gen¬ 
tleman left her I feel sure she promptly forgot him and 
ffook comfort to be her spouse’! 

^^It’s great luck to have a household of old and young. 
Aunt Fanny and I alone together would be happy, I dare¬ 
say, but very sober and staid and slow-paced. As it is, 
we never get time to settle. I don’t know if Aunt Fanny 
quite likes it, poor dear, but it certainly is doing her 
good: she has become years younger and more active 
these last three weeks in her efforts to avoid old Bill. 
And neither of us would enjoy our quiet evenings as we 
do, were they not the peaceful end of strenuous days. 
I feel surprised at the change in myself. Was I ever 
really listless and quiet and lifeless and all the other 
things you used to taunt me with ? Anyway, now I’m 
not. I talk all the time. I’m getting quite fforritsome’ 


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127 


in my manner. I fish, I climb bills, I play football as if 
I were seventeen instead of thirty, and —^the children 
think me quite young. Aha! 

‘^Specky paid me such a nice compliment the other 
night when I was saying good night to him. 

‘When are ladies allowed to marry, Pie V he asked. 

“I thought a minute, and said seventeen was about 
the age. 

“ ‘Could you marry. Pie V he asked next. 

“Having satisfied him on that point, I said, ‘What age 
do you think I am?’ 

“ ‘I thought about seventeen,’ he said gravely. 

“I felt highly pleased, for most children assume their 
elders to be hovering about eighty, and are surprised that 
they don’t remember the battle of Waterloo and Mary 
Queen of Scots. 

“I must not rave about Specky’s gentleness and good¬ 
ness or you will think that he has suddenly turned into 
a priggish Little Lord Fauntleroy. If he thought about 
it for a minute he would scorn to be good. It is just 
that he doesn’t think about himself at all, and is naturally 
good. Lessons are what he dislikes. Pen and ink are 
an abomination to him. For his writing exercise (his 
writing is shocking) we said he might write a letter to 
his father. He managed to scrawl about two lines, and 
when Carty protested he said plaintively, ‘I know Daddy’s 
a nice person, but I’ve got worms to dig.’ 

“He would like to spend every minute of the day out of 
doors—fishing, for preference. We dare not let him go 
to Tweed alone, but he is very content with the Hope 
Water. He fishes from the little waterfall beyond the 
house to the bridge where the stream meets Tweed. We 
can watch him from the dining-room windows, moving 
like an elf in his slim grey jersey. He is the eternal 
jfigure of your true fisherman—patient, hopeful, happy. 


128 PINK SUGAR 

He has worn a track right along the hank with his stead¬ 
fast feet! 

'^For the first fortnight he fished, literally, all day, and 
caught nothing. It got on all our nerves. At first we 
went out to meet him and asked gaily, Well, have you 
caught anything?’ hut the answer was so invariably in 
the negative that we got quite shy about asking. In vain 
did Tod (the gardener) help him to dig the most tempt¬ 
ing bait, in vain Specky threw his line into every likely 
pool—^nothing happened. We got so annoyed at the trout. 
So much so that Miss Wotherspoon said vindictively, 
‘That laddie’ll catch a fish if I’ve to tie one on to the 
line.’ However, there was no need for such extreme 
measures. One evening Specky came in triumphant, 
carrying a minute trout, weighing I should think about 
1 oz. 

“We all said we were so glad, and what a noble fish 
it was, and all was well until Barbara rushed in to see the 
first catch. She looked at it, and promptly burst into 
fioods of tears and, sobbing out, ‘He’s gone and killed 
a poor baby,’ rushed from the room. 

“Specky, very crestfallen, ate his supper, his catch 
clutched in one hot hand. 

“ ‘It’s all very well,’ he said, ‘for Barbara to go on 
like that, but even the babies are very hard to catch.’ 

“We tried to cheer him, but he went rather heavily 
upstairs to bed, after having entrusted the trout to Easie, 
who promised to fry it in oatmeal for his breakfast. 

“Half an hour later I went up to the boys’ room. Bill 
was sitting on his bed half-undressed, solemnly chanting 
to himself some low ditty, while at the other bed knelt 
Barbara and Specky, the tears still wet on their faces, 
clasped in each other’s arms, saying their prayers to¬ 
gether. . . . 

“I always thought I didn’t care much for little girls, 


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129 


but I make an exception in Barbara’s favour. That child 
has the best intentions in the world, and it isn’t her fault 
if she generally forgets them in the stress of keeping her 
end up with two brothers. Eew people have such a gift 
for living as Barbara. She just seems to fling herself 
headlong into the sunshine and joy of these summer days. 
Desperately careless and untidy, scoldings worry her not 
at all. She is deeply penitent—for a minute! Then off 
again. She is never at a loss for something to amuse 
herself with: animals are her passion; she beseeches me 
to keep a pig! So far we have only a donkey, and a 
cat which the children have christened Percy. Easie 
pronounces it Pearcy, and Miss Wotherspoon Perzy. 

“I don’t like to talk to the children much of their 
mother (I don’t feel I have any right to, and they might 
resent it), but I can see that Barbara tries (when she 
remembers, poor lamb!) to take her place with Specky 
and Bill. I find that she goes in every night and reads 
the Bible to them, as her mother did. 

What shall I read ?’ I heard her ask the other night. 

“ ^Oh,’ said Specky, who is always polite, ^you might 
read a psalm, one of the nice little short ones, or Daniel 
and the lions’ den, or the men in the furnace, or-’ 

“Then Bill, seated on his pillow, said languidly, ^You 
may read me about Jono,’ but whether he meant the 
heathen goddess or the prophet it was hard to say. 

“When Barbara has read some verses carefully, she 
continues reading softly, running the words together to 
make a soothing effect. 

“ ‘I’m murmuring,’ she told me; ^that is what Mummy 
always did to put us to sleep.’ 

“Bill is a ‘card’: a most surprising fellow. 

“He is naturally naughty, as Specky is naturally good, 
and he is never repentant. That is Aunt Eanny’s great 
charge against him—that he won’t say he is sorry; but 



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after all, what would be the good of sajing it when he 
obviously isn’t sorry ? 

‘^Yesterday when I was round in the back premises 
looking for Tod I heard voices. Aunt Fanny was in¬ 
specting the greenhouse, and had found Bill squirting 
water from the tank over the plants and over himself. 
Having reprimanded him for that, she went on to other 
offences. 

Who,’ she asked, ^turned on the tap of the paraffin 
barrel and ran out all the oil 

^Mr. NTobody,’ said Bill, insolently swaggering about. 

‘Waste almost breaks Aunt Fanny’s heart, and this 
seemed to her an awful crime. She continued: 

“ ‘Don’t you know, you bad boy, that Some One was 
looking down at you when you did that V 

“ ‘Some one up the loft V Bill asked, rather interested. 
saw you/ Aunt Fanny said solemnly. 

“Bill looked at her as if he were sorry for her igno¬ 
rance. 

“ ‘Ho, don’t you know? God’s at Clapham. He saw 
me steal a lump of sugar there. Carty said He did. He 
didn’t see me eat it, though, for I went under the table.’ 

“Carty says that when Bill was small he refused utterly 
to greet visitors, but now he has developed a sort of fierce 
politeness which is very disconcerting. He grabs their 
hands, and says rapidly, without looking at them, ‘How- 
dyoudo. Quitewellthankyou,’ and retires feeling his 
duty done. 

“Barbara and Specky are careless about their appear¬ 
ance; neither of them ever possesses a clean handker¬ 
chief, and they have to be sent back constantly to brush 
their teeth or hair. Bill is always a pattern of neatness. 
Ho one ever saw him with dirty hands (when he feels 
them sticky he wipes them on the clothes of whoever 
is nearest to him), and he keeps his hanky always in the 


PINK SUGAR 


ISl 


fold. When it is rumpled he throws it away. He likes 
to wash in my bathroom and use my special soap (^It 
smells of you, Pie’), and he adores having scent on his 
handkerchief. My lavender water is too mild for him, 
but Hellie went to Priorsford for the day, and brought 
him a bottle labelled ^Hew Mown Hay,’ most offensive 
stuff, which he uses regularly. Sweet William with his 
homely cottage smell! 

^^Speck, as you know, hates pen and ink, but Bill ^hears 
the sound of pens writing.’ Already in staggering capi¬ 
tals he prints stories. He is struggling with one now, 
called The Brave Prince. It is all about dragons and 
other fearsome things, but when I read it last night the 
last half-finished sentence ran, ^Something soft touched 

his hand-’ What was it. Bill?’ I asked, and he 

turned to me and gave, like the Interpreter, ^a wonderful 
innocent smile,’ and said, ^It was a pussy.’ The gentle 
imaginings of Bill! 

‘Well, that’s all about the children. It’s odd, but I 
can scarcely believe that there ever was a time when I 
wasn’t at Little Phantasy, and hadn’t the children to 
enjoy. All the rest of my life seems like rather a dull 
story about somebody else. 

“Do you remember a book you liked very much, The 
Penny Whistle? Well, the author of it lives near here— 
Mrs. Strang of Hopewaterfoot, a relation of my landlord. 
She has been to see us, and I had tea with her the other 
day. I liked her when I saw her; chiefly, I think, 
because she reminded me of you. She is dark and very 
slim (there is something boyish about her, though she 
can’t be young. How old would you be, if you were 
married in the Boer War?) and has an impudent little 
face—^like you! Her husband was killed in the Boer 
War, and her only child in France, so she is quite alone. 
It is frightfully sad, but she isn’t the sort of woman you 



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could offer pity to: she never speaks of her losses. She 
doesn’t seem to think it is at all clever to he able to write, 
and rather laughs at herself as an author. ... I would 
like you to meet her. We have other delightful neigh¬ 
bours, the Anthony Hays of Cherrytrees. They are 
elderly, and frankly Victorian, and much thought of by 
Aunt Fanny. 

like the parson we ^sit under,’ Mr. Brand. He is 
frightfully keen on books, and so poor that he can’t even 
afford The Times'* Literary Supplement, I am going to 
take in every paper and magazine that I think he would 
like and cart them along to him. I wish I could do 
something for the sister, she is so hard-working and con¬ 
scientious, and seems to have such a dull time. But I 
don’t think she likes me, she is so prickly when I try to 
be nice to her. 

don’t believe I have ever mentioned Miss Carter! 
She is all you said she was and more. She is as good 
as can be with the children, and she is most companion¬ 
able and pleasant in the house. She tells me she has a 
stepmother and several younger sisters, and isn’t wanted 
at home, so I suppose she will have to go on teaching 
for always unless she marries. What fun it would be if 
she married Mr. Brand! He is the only eligible bachelor 
about here, and perhaps ^eligible’ is hardly the word. 
Of course there is Colonel Home, but any one can see he 
is a confirmed bachelor. Blanche, I did a fearful thing 
yesterday. I squirm when I think of it. We were hav- 
ing a picnic at Hopecarton Glen, and the landlord and 
Mr. Brand came walking past on their way home from 
somewhere, and of course we had to ask them to have tea. 

I was trying to make conversation with Colonel Home, 
and he said something, I forget what it was, that sounded 
as if he were sorry he had been spared to come home 
from the War, and I quite suddenly lost my temper and 


PINK SUGAR 


ISS 


scolded like a fish-wife. It was most uncalled for, and 
I simply can’t think what he must have thought of me. 
The odd thing was that instead of being furious he was 
quite patient under my rebuke. He really has a very 
nice smile. 

had a letter from Mr. Crawford the other day from 
somewhere in Spain. He seems fairly cheerful. 

‘Will you give Tim all the nicest messages you can 
think of from me ? It is splendid to hear he is so much 
better. Seeing you would put new life into him. I m 
glad he has you, but I wish I could have you too 1 

“Love from 

“Kiesty.” 


Chapter XIII 

“Hark! I hear the sound of coaches.” 

The Beggar^s Opera. 

“Be pitiful: be courteous.” 

St. Paul. 

W ITH anxious eye the Hev. Horman and Mrs. 

M’Candlish watched the barometer as the day fixed 
for their annual garden party drew near. 

For a fortnight the weather had been perfect, and it 
hardly seemed possible that it would hold out for another 
two days. Every morning Mrs. M^Candlish sighed and 
said, ‘Tf only we had fixed it for to-day; it would have 
been just as convenient, but how could we tell?” and 
her husband replied with the easy optimism that is so 
hard for wives to bear, ^Tt will be all right, you’ll see. 
There is no sign of the weather breaking.” 

The day before the event was grey and cold and windy, 
and threatened rain. 

Mrs. M’Candlish’s face remained pink and white and 
placid, her hair perfect in its elaborate waves and curls, 
everything about her person was as rigidly neat as ever, 
but her husband knew that she was seriously perturbed 
by the way she moved restlessly about, touching things 
aimlessly, and answering in an absent way when spoken 
to. 

He himself felt more than a little anxious. If the 
rain did pour, what a fiasco the afternoon would be! 
Every one herded into the house, no one admiring the 
garden, all the carefully thought-out plans lying in ruins. 
But aloud he said, ^^Ho need to worry. This is only a 


PINK SUGAR 


135 


confirmation of the drought, the sun will shine to-mo3r- 
row,’^ and he hummed, very flat, two lines of a hymn: 

“We expect a bright to-morrow, 

All will be well!’’ 

hope so, dear, hut it is a very anxious time. I’m 
sure I don’t know what makes us attempt a garden party. 
The uncertainty about the weather takes years off one’s 
life. But, somehow, you forget from one year to another 
how miserable the weather makes you. And, of course, 
we never have had a bad day, and the garden is beautiful. 
Except for size, it is quite as fine as Edmonston Hall.” 
She stopped and looked out of the window at the smirr 
of rain drifting over Batchell Hill, then observed de¬ 
spondently, ^^But even the garden is hardly worth it. 
... If it rains outright it will be bad enough—we will 
know the worst then and make the best arrangements we 
can—it will just be a large dull tea-party in the house—• 
but if it is neither one thing nor another what is to be 
done? Suppose we put out all the tables and the rain 
comes on and soaks everything? And then, oh, Norman, 
the Band! I had forgotten about it.” 

She sat down weakly on a chair and stared at her 
husband. ^ Why did I ever think of such a thing ? Out>- 
side it would be quite impressive, in the house it would 
be simply ludicrous. They would need to play in one 
of the spare bedrooms.” Mrs. M’Candlish laughed al¬ 
most hysterically. 

^Well, well, it hasn’t happened yet,” her husband told 
her soothingly. He tapped the barometer—^they were 
never far from the barometer in these anxious days. ^^Ah, 
if anything, inclined to rise.” In his relief he became 
quite jocose. ^^A Band in the house, Aggie, would be 
like the Highlander’s idea of Heaven, ‘A sma’ room fu’ 


136 


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o’ pipers.’ . . . But tliat won’t happen. NTo, no. All 
will be well.” 

And his faith was justified. The next day broke 
cloudless. 

“A perfect day,” Mrs. M’Candlish said, as she stood 
in her neat morning frock watching the maids carry the 
plainest and strongest chairs the Manse possessed into 
the shrubbery to support the Band. ^^How thankful we 
ought to be! I hardly like to pray about it, for a 
garden party, being a secular function, isn’t like a Sun¬ 
day School picnic—I always pray about the weather for 
things like that. . . . Oh, NTorman, will you see if Mur¬ 
ray understood about going to the station to meet the 
things that are coming from Edinburgh? Yes, dear, he 
had better take the car. . . .” 

^^A perfect day,” grumbled Kirsty Gilmour. ^^What 
a waste to go to a garden party! You will come, won’t 
you. Aunt Fanny, seeing it is such a good day? The 
grass can’t possibly be damp, and it might amuse you to 
see the people.” 

Miss Fanny drew her shawls about her. Even on this 
warm June day she wore a shawl or two. 

think not, dear,” she said. never did like garden 
parties, and I’m getting too old for new people.” 

^Well, I’m not going alone, that’s certain. Carty, you 
must come with me. Oh, do. Aunt Fanny will keep 
an eye on Bill”—Miss Fanny here murmured something 
—‘^and you won’t be bored, because I believe everything 
interests you, even people at a garden party. I always 
think human nature is at its lowest at that form of en¬ 
tertainment. . . . Perhaps Mrs. Strang will be there. 
That’s something to hope for, anyway. ... Be ready 
at four o’clock, will you, Carty? Shall we have the 
wagonette, or walk? Which would be worst, to arrive 


PINK SUGAR 


137 


among all the smart carts mounted high in that chariot, 
or walk and appear flushed in the face and dusty about 
the feet? I’m afraid we shall have to get a car. Or 
we might compromise on a pony-cart. What do you say, 
Aunt Fanny?” 

Miss Fanny shook her head. ^^Ho, dear, I don’t care 
for pony-carts—a victoria for the summer and a brougham 
for winter is what I have always been used to. . . . 
Kirsty, dear, I think I shall lie down this afternoon, if 
you will he so good as to tell Miss Wotherspoon to bring 
my tea to my room about four o’clock. I have a slight 
headache.” 

Kirsty expressed great regret to hear of her aunt’s head¬ 
ache, and strongly advised her to rest. 

^^ISTellie will have tea with the children in the wood. 
That will be a treat for them all, and they won’t disturb 
you.” She added ruefully, ^Tt would have been a treat 
for me too, if only the M’Candlishes hadn’t been so hos¬ 
pitably inclined. However-” 

The garden party was in full swing. Every one who 
had been invited had arrived, and an imposing assemblage 
of vehicles crowded the stables and overflowed into the 
drive, from the newest Rolls-Royce to the wagonette of 
Mr. Dickson in which Kirsty and Miss Carter had made 
their modest entrance. 

The heart of Mrs. M’Candlish swelled within her as 
she stood on the lawn and watched the scene. From the 
shrubbery the Priorsford Band discoursed sweet music. 
She was glad now that she had been bold enough to have 
it. She had had many qualms about it (especially when 
she woke in the night), but standing in the bright sun¬ 
light, watching the groups of smartly dressed people 
enjoying a tea that was simply sumptuous—six different 
kinds of sandwiches, a rich profusion of small cakes, and 



138 


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ices to follow —she felt that she had been justified. This 
was no ordinary occasion. 

NTever, she thought, had the garden looked more beauti¬ 
ful, the lawns like velvet, the wide borders gay with every 
sweet old flower—columbines and Canterbury bells, 
lupins and sweet-williams, pansies and peonies. A chest¬ 
nut grew at one side of the lawn, holding up hundreds 
of waxen blossoms, like some great decorated Christmas 
tree. Behind, the hillside rose steeply, and a group of 
tall dark pines threw up effectively the whitewashed 
house. 

Mrs. M’Candlish was glad to see that every one seemed 
to be chatting freely with every one else. Soon the young 
people would begin to play tennis, and the older people 
clock-golf. She gave a thankful little sigh, and turned 
to a vacant seat. 

Xirsty found herself seated at a table with three people 
she had never seen before, two women and a man. Mr. 
M’Candlish had introduced her, murmuring names that 
meant nothing to her, and had immediately flown off 
to greet some newcomers. The man was a clergyman, 
and the younger of the two women was evidently his 
wife; the other woman had small restless eyes like a 
ferret, and a hat covered with paradise plumes. Most 
uninteresting, all three, Kirsty decided; and, as they 
seemed to have nothing to say to her after a few mur¬ 
mured civilities, she amused herself by picking out the 
few people she knew among the occupants of the other 
tables. 

Carty was quite near talking to Mr. Brand, who seemed 
in a sprightly humour and amused by his companion. 
Miss Eebecca Brand was at another table, eating an ice 
with an abstracted air, in the company of two old ladies 
in bonnets. She wore a tweed coat and skirt, and looked 
hot in spite of the ice. 


PINK SUGAR 


139 


Mr. Anthony Hay waved a greeting from another table, 
and she noticed Lady Carruthers talking very vivaciously 
to a group of people, hut these were the only faces she 
knew in the crowd. There were some pretty girls and 
a very few young men; most of the people were middle- 
aged or frankly elderly. 

She turned from contemplating them to listen idly to 
the conversation going on at her own table. 

The ferret-like lady with the paradise plumes was 
speaking. ^^What I dislike about your service, Mr. Wood, 
is that there is so much getting up and sitting down about 
it: you never get a rest. And then you hardly ever have 
a sermon. I think that is a great pity. I must say I like 
a sermon. One neednT listen unless one likes, but there 
is something very satisfactory about a sermon. IVe 
thought out many a household detail during a sermon, 
I can tell you. Oh, it^s all very well being an Episco¬ 
palian—it sounds well, and I admit it is smarter—but 
there’s no doubt if you’ve been brought up a Presby¬ 
terian you take ill with it.” 

Mr. Wood flushed. He was a boyish-looking person 
with a round face, no match, obviously, for the deter¬ 
mined lady who was giving him her views about the 
Episcopalian form of worship. His wife, who had also 
a round cheery face, seemed to urge him with her eyes 
not to make any retort. 

Kirsty wondered at the resemblance between the hus¬ 
band and wife. Had they grown like each other since 
they married, or had the likeness attracted them in the 
first case ? She felt very sorry for them both, but hardly 
knew how to break into the conversation. 

^Wou are very High Church, Mr. Wood,” continued 
the lady, ^^and perhaps you can’t help it; but what I say 
is, why not be a priest right out ? Of course, there would 
be no Mrs. Wood” (her tone seemed to imply that that 


140 


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would have been no great loss, and the poor little woman 
wilted under it), ^^but you would have full freedom to cut 
all the capers you liked in the way of dressing up, and 
confessing, and carrying on. . . . By the way, is it you 
that gets the Easter offering? It is? ETo wonder you 
were anxious that it should be a big one.” 

Again Mr. Wood flushed, and that flush and his round 
boyish face were too much for Kirsty. She broke in with, 
‘^Isn’t this a delightful garden?” addressing the clergy¬ 
man and his wife, and ignoring the other occupant of the 
table. 

Mr. Wood started. ^^Quite, quite,” he said. And 
again, ^^Quite, quite”; and the little wife added, ^^And 
there is such a nice stretch of turf.” 

“Talking of turf,” said the ferret-like lady, turning her 
back on the couple and addressing Kirsty, “talking of 
turf, you should see our lawns at The Towers. Do you 
belong to the neighbourhood? Or have you only come 
with some one? I don’t seem to have seen you before, 
and of course I know every one—county and otherwise.” 

Kirsty had succeeded in turning the attack on herself. 

“Do you ?” she said gently. “How very nice!” 

The restless eyes of the lady went all over Kirsty, 
priced her gown, valued the string of pearls round her 
neck, noted the way she wore her things, and her voice, 
when next she spoke, was almost silky. 

“I expect you’re staying at Edmonston Hall. I know 
Lady Carruthers very well. What does that poor hus¬ 
band of hers do with himself all day?” 

“I don’t know,” said Kirsty truthfully. “What do 
most husbands do with themselves?” 

“Well, mine made money.” The little lady gave a 
short laugh. “Yours, Mrs. Wood, occupies himself with 
Popish practices. And yours,” she turned to Kirsty, 
“what does yours do?—if you have one.” 


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141 


Xirsty looked at her with large wistful eyes. 

“Alas! I haven’t one/’ she sighed, and added: 

‘‘She hath no loyal knight and true. 

The Lady of Shalott.^’ 

The clergyman and his wife cast uneasy glances at her, 
while the ferret-like lady said, “What did you say your 
name was? I didn’t catch it.” 

“I didn’t say it. But I shall now. My name is Gil- 
mour, Kirsty Gilmour.” 

Xo one looked either impressed or enlightened, and 
with a sniff the lady went hack to the subject of Edmon- 
ston Hall. 

“Has Lady Carruthers a large party just now ? She is 
a great entertainer, hut I daresay she feels that she must 
amuse herself somehow in this out-of-the-way place. It’s 
different with us in Priorsford. We have quite a giddy 
round of gaiety in summer. Tennis, you know, and— 
and one thing and another. Is this your first visit to 
Edmonston Hall?” 

Kirsty raised her eyebrows, and said patiently, “But 
I’m not staying at Edmonston Hall.” 

“Then why did you say you were?” 

“I think it was you who said I was. You didn’t give 
me time to undeceive you.” 

“Well,” said the lady very crossly, “where in the world 
are you staying?” 

“In my own house,” said Kirsty meekly. “I’ve taken 
Little Phantasy on a lease. Perhaps you know it ?” 

''Little Phantasy! There’s a Colonel Home of Phan¬ 
tasy. He has never been at home since we came to this 
district, hut now that I think of it I did hear he had 
come hack to settle down.” 

“Colonel Home lives at Phantasy proper,” Kirsty ex¬ 
plained. “We have a much smaller house in the grounds.” 


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The little lady’s small eyes were bright with interest. 

^^Then you’ll know Colonel Home ? What kind of 
man is he ? What age, I mean ? And will he he a. help 
socially ?” 

Kirsty thoughtfully bit a sandwich, surveying the while 
the eager eyes of her questioner. 

At last she said, ^T’ve only seen Colonel Home twice, 
but he didn’t strike me as the type of man to be a social 
success. He was badly wounded, perhaps you know, 
and is lame. He seemed to me rather inclined to be a 
recluse.” 

The ferret-like lady struck the table impatiently with 
her little hard hand. 

^Tsn’t that like the thing?” she said bitterly. 
neighbourhood almost devoid of men, and when one does- 
come to settle down the first thing you hear is that he is- 
a recluser 

She looked so balefully at the little clergyman that he 
instinctively moved his chair away from her. 

‘^Oh,” said Kirsty soothingly, ^fit may not be as bad asi 
that. Colonel Home will probably find that he must 
entertain and be entertained a certain amount. But I’m 
afraid there will never be anything of the ^giddy round^ 
about him. ... Is this really a very manless neighbour^ 
hood?” 

^^Manless!” the lady snorted. 

The clergyman’s wife here ventured a remark. 

“Of course when you say there are few men, you meam 
eligible men. There are lots of middle-aged married’ 
men, and some nice elderly bachelors who don’t mind: 
going out to tea.” 

“Well, they must have been eligible once,” Kirsty said: 
cheerfully, as if determined to look on the bright side.. 
“And, anyway, what does it matter ?” 


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143 


The ferret-like lady looked at her darkly. ^Wait till 
you give a dance,” she said. 

^^But there is nothing further from my intentions,” 
Kirsty assured her. 

^Tt’s odd that you, a comparatively young woman” 
(Kirsty smiled), ^^almost a girl, should want to settle 
down in this lonely place. There must he some attrac¬ 
tion. . . . Did you know Colonel Home before you took 
the house ?” 

said Kirsty, and rose to her feet. “Oh, pardon 
me, hut I see some one I must speak to,” and she ran 
eagerly to meet Mrs. Strang, who was coming towards 
her. 

“I did hope you would be here,” she said, as they shook 
hands. 

Mrs. Strang nodded to the occupants of the table Kirsty 
had just left, and said as she walked off with Kirsty, 
‘^How did you get into that circle?” 

“I was put at that table by Mr. M’Candlish. Tell me, 
is that the clergyman who comes to St. Mark’s every 
week—Mr. Wood?” 

“Yes. He works it along with the Priorsford church. 
Bushes between the two on a motor bicycle. He is a nice 
fellow, and a good cricketer, and I like his wife. She 
has a gift that almost amounts to genius for managing 
fowls. Her hens don’t die in debt, which is such a bless¬ 
ing, for they are rather badly off.—Well now, what do 
you think of this for a garden party ? Isn’t it well done ? 
The tea is purveyed from Princes Street, the Manse gar¬ 
den is like Prospero’s Island—^full of sweet noises that 
give delight and hurt not (in other words, Priorsford 
Band brought at great expense in a char-a-banc), and our 
host and hostess are as pleased and proud as they can 
be. I’ve suffered tortures of anxiety in case it would 


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rain ever since Mrs. M’Candlish told me about the Band. 
I never really cared much for the lady (it’s difficult 
knowing what to say to her after you’ve discussed the 
price of food and how to make rock-cakes), but I shall like 
her always now; it was so sporting of her actually to 
compass the Band. . . . Dear me, there is Archie Home. 
Well, he is trying to do his duty by his neighbours, poor 
dear fellow. Come and speak to him.” 

^Wait a moment,” Kirsty said, clutching her com¬ 
panion’s arm to stop her. ^^Do tell me who that is I was 
sitting beside ? Ho, not the Woods, the little sandy- 
haired woman with the ferret’s eyes and the paradise 
plumes ?” 

^My dear, be careful, please, how you allude to that 
lady. That is no less a person than Mrs. Duff-Whally 
of The Towers, Priorsford. That’s her daughter, that 
pretty, bored-looking girl in the green hat. What did 
she say to you? Oh, here she comes, bearing straight 
down on us. . . . How d’you do, Mrs. Duff-Whally? I 
haven’t seen you for a long time. Have you been away ?” 

^^Of course,” said the lady, her paradise plumes wag¬ 
ging, ^^Priorsford’s impossible in the early spring. Mu¬ 
riel and I always go to the Riviera. Then we paid some 
visits, so we’re not long back. . . , Have you been writ¬ 
ing any more books ?” 

Mrs. Strang laughed gently at the humouring tone, 
and murmured something about ^ffilways writing a little.” 

^T’m sure,” said Mrs. Duff-Whally, ^^it’s a nice pastime 
for you. And people who know you are quite pleased to 
buy your books. ... I was telling Muriel the other day 
I believed she could write if she liked to try. Her letters 
are really awfully good. She has that kind of interesting 
style, you know, lots of dashes and exclamation points. 
Racy you call it. And then she sees so much of the world, 
and meets so many interesting people. Hearly every- 


PINK SUGAR 


14)5 


body in the hotel we were in had some sort of title, and 
there were two divorced Peers and a black Prince!!” 
Mrs. Duff-Whally paused to note the effect of this state¬ 
ment and finished, ‘^Some of them were queer in spite of 
their titles.’’ 

daresay,” said Mrs. Strang; “a title is no guarantee 
of sanity. This is Miss Gilmour, Mrs. Duff-Whally, she 
has come to live here.” 

Kirsty received a nod from the lady, who said, ‘^We 
were sitting at the same table.—Is Colonel Home here, 
Mrs. Strang? He’s a cousin of yours, isn’t he? I 
should like to get to know him, and show him some 
civility. It must be very lonely for him, and a cheery 
evening at The Towers would raise his spirits, him lame 
and all.” 

^Tt would,” Mrs. Strang cordially agreed. ^^There is 
Colonel Home over there talking to our hostess. Shall I 
go with you ...” but the energetic lady was halfway 
across the lawn before the sentence was finished. 

^‘Who is she?” Kirsty asked excitedly, as she watched 
her march, paradise plumes waving, to start her crusade 
against Colonel Home’s possible dulness. 

^^She’s a wonderful woman,” said Mrs. Strang; ^^she 
knows what she wants and goes straight for it. Poor 
Archie!” 

‘T don’t think I want to see much of her,” Kirsty said. 

'‘You won’t, if she doesn’t consider you worth while. 
If you have made a good impression on her (I mean by 
that if she thinks you are rich enough to be worth know¬ 
ing) she wiU arrive in a very large and opulent car and 
shower cards on you (I never saw any one so lavish with 
the cards—she leaves positively stacks of them), and 
then she will invite you constantly to dinners, lunches, 
tennis parties, dances—there is simply no end to her 
hospitality.” 


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^^She was being very mde to poor Mr. Wood.” 

‘^Ob, I daresay. She considers him and his wife fair 
game. ... I wonder who that pretty girl is with Bob 
Brand ?” 

^Why,” said Kirsty, ^%at^s Miss Carter, the children’s 
governess. Do come and speak to her. She is so inter¬ 
ested in you, and she knows nobody here—but perhaps 
you ought to be speaking to other people ? I expect you 
know everybody.” 

‘^N’ot I. Mrs. M’Candlish has thrown her net wide 
this time. And I would like to meet Miss Carter. When 
are you going to bring the whole household to Hope- 
waterfoot ?” 

^We’re just waiting to be asked,” said Kirsty with 
engaging candour. 

^That’s all right. Shall we say next Tuesday ? Every 
one of you, remember, and do try to persuade Miss 
Eanny. Tell her I’m really much nicer in my own 
house. . . .” Then Mrs. Strang was engulfed by a group 
of people she knew, and Kirsty wandered away by her¬ 
self and sat down beside Miss Rebecca Brand, who was 
watching two clergymen and their wives play clock-golf. 

‘Tt’s a good thing it’s keeping fair,” said Rebecca. 

Kirsty was amused at such a mild description of a 
perfect day, but she merely smiled her agreement and 
asked her companion if she cared for garden parties. 

‘^Ko, I don’t,” was the uncompromising answer, ‘^but 
it’s an easy way of entertaining if you’ve got a good 
garden, and I don’t blame Mrs. M’Candlish. They give 
one every year. They began very simply—just a cup of 
tea outside and a walk round the place—^but they’ve 

grown and grown, and now-” Rebecca waved her 

hand impressively. 

‘Tt is smart,” Kirsty agreed. ^^And such a lovely set¬ 
ting for a party, the garden and the hills behind. You 



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147 


must be very fond of this countryside, you and your 
brother. Muirburn has always been your home, hasn’t 
it 

^^Oh, yes. We like it well enough. New people rave 
about it, but when you’ve always lived in a place you 
never think much about its beauty.” 

^Terhaps not,” Kirsty said, ‘^but I don’t think one 
ever gets used to ugliness.” 

Kirsty looked about, pulling down the wide brim of 
her hat to shade her eyes. It was quite amusing to 
watch the people. could almost tell,” she said to 
herself, ^Vhich are the Vorth while’ people by Mrs. 
Duff-Whally’s behaviour. She is all smiles and honey to 
some, others get a jerky nod and a mechanical smile, 
the rest are ignored entirely. I do hope she will consider 
me beneath her notice.” 

There was no trace of Miss Carter, and presently with 
a word to Kebecca Brand, Kirsty got up and sauntered 
away to look for her. The lawn was covered with groups 
of people busily talking. Lady Carruthers waved a greet¬ 
ing to Kirsty, and Mr. Anthony Hay came up to inquire 
anxiously if she had had enough to eat, and asked if 
he might walk round the garden with her. 

^^All those people must be strangers to you. Miss Gil- 
mour; indeed, many of them I don’t know myself. I 
hope you haven’t felt it dull. I always think myself that 
a garden party is a meaningless form of entertainment— 
not that it isn’t exceedingly kind of Mr. and Mrs. M’Cand- 
lish to have us here. . . . Your aunt didn’t come with 
you ? Ah, yes, she and I belong to the same school of 
thought! Come and look at Mr. M’Candlish’s rock 
garden.” 

Half an hour later Kirsty found Stella Carter, still 
accompanied by Bobert Brand, in the vegetable garden. 

^Ts it time to go ?” Stella asked, and seemed surprised. 


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said Kirstj, ‘^the Band is playing Will ye no 
come hacJc again? which looks to me like a broad hint. 
. . . Have you enjoyed yourself, Mr. Brand V’ 

^^Amazingly,” said Mr. Brand. 

Kirsty laughed. ‘Amazingly’ is good. You mean, 
much more than you expected to enjoy yourself?” 

“Just that,” said Eobert Brand. 

Every one was gone now; the piles of dishes were 
washed, the lawn was cleared of seats and seemed sur¬ 
prisingly little the worse for the trampling it had received, 
the chairs had been brought in from the shrubbery, and 
the Band was safely on its way to Priorsford. It was 
nearly seven o’clock. 

Mr. and Mrs. M’Candlish, flushed, tired, but very 
happy, stood together in their garden talking. 

“They stayed so long, Horman, they must have enjoyed 
themselves.” 

“Ho doubt of that, my dear. It was a most successful 
party.” 

“Norman, even Mrs. Duff-Whally owned that it was 
a sweet garden, and she mentioned the sandwiches with 
the little flags on them.” 

“Did she, my dear?” said Mr. M’Candlish. “And 
Colonel Home said very kind things about our lupins. 
I was taken with him, Aggie. There is something very 
pleasant about his smile.” 

“Yes, dear.” (Mrs. M’Candlish would have found 
something pleasant in Apollyon at this happy moment.) 

. . . “Did you hear what Mrs. Strang said about the 
Band ? She stood before me and said in that very deflnite 
sort of way she has, ‘It’s absolutely made the after¬ 
noon,’ and quoted something—poetry, I think (you would 
have known what it was), and then she said so warmly, 
‘Dear Mrs. M’Candlish, it was an inspiration.’ ” 


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149 


Mr. M’Candlish stooped over a broken flower. ‘^So 
it was,” be said. ^^So it was.” 

always ratber afraid of Mrs. Strang,” bis wife 
continued; ‘‘I’ve an idea sbe is given to laughing at 
people, but I really liked ber to-day. Sbe quite set my 
mind at rest.” Mrs. M’Candlisb sigbed happily. 

“Well, well, Aggie, all our fears have been disap¬ 
pointed. Last night, you remember, we were very 
anxious.” Mr. M’Candlisb straightened himself and took 
a long breath as if be felt a burden removed. 

“!Norman,” bis wife said solemnly, “I said to myself 
last night, if we get over to-morrow decently at all, I shall 
never risk another garden party—^but to-night I’m not 
so sure.” 

“Of course we’ll have another (that is to say if we are 
spared), but you’ll never surpass this effort, my dear. 
. . . Dear me, is that the gong ? I must say I’ll be glad 
of a bite of dinner. I got no tea for talking. . . . Come 
away in, Aggie.” 

And they turned from the scene of their triumph and 
went into the house hand in hand. 


Chapter XIV 

**. . . Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter. 

In sleep a king; but waking no such matter.” 

Sonnets of William Shakespeare. 

R ebecca stood in her bedroom dressing 

to go ont. She had put on a muslin blouse and a 
tweed skirt, and had just decided that it was much too 
warm to put on the tweed coat that belonged to the skirt. 

^‘Not that I like going out with a blouse,” she told her¬ 
self, ^^there is something so unfinished about it, but I 
haven’t a wash dress fit to be seen.” 

She looked discontentedly into the little mirror on her 
dressing-table and thought over her small stock of summer 
frocks, all so washed out and shrunken as to be quite hope¬ 
less. Then she sighed: ^^Of course, if I had clever hands 
I could make myself a new one for very little, and 
knit dresses too—but I’m a donkey, I can’t even knit a 
jumper.” 

Again she regarded herself in the looking-glass, and 
what she saw there seemed to give her small satisfaction. 
The frilly collar of the muslin blouse framed unbecom¬ 
ingly the round red face, and her hat had a way of tilting 
back on her head, which gave her a slightly rakish look. 

She turned herself about before the inadequate glass, 
pulling down the skirt, patting the blouse to make it lie 
better, then she shook her head. ^^ISTothing on earth 
could make a blouse and a tweed skirt becoming. If I 
had one of those dresses that Miss Gilmour wears, slim 
clinging sort of things with long lines, I believe I might 
have quite a decent figure; but as it is, I’m a dumpy 
object.” 


150 


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151 


She left the glass—at no time did she spend much 
time before it-^and pulled out a drawer to get a pair 
of gloves. 

It was a neat, fresh room, every drawer tidy, every bit 
of furniture well polished, but there was no attempt at 
prettiness or decoration. The room was practically the 
same as it had been when Kebecca first began to use it. 
The dressing-table stood in the window as it had stood 
for more than thirty years. It was of walnut with curved 
legs and ball feet, and on it lay four thick crochet mats. 
They were ugly, they were useless, but they had always 
been there, and Eebecca saw no reason why they should 
go. On two of them stood glass bottles filled with col¬ 
oured salt set in patterns, which were believed to have 
come originally from Brighton. The looking-glass was 
small and damp-spotted, and was apt to tilt violently 
backwards unless propped by a shell-box which had been 
bought at the Crystal Palace in the ’seventies. 

Her brushes and hand-mirror had been a wedding pres¬ 
ent to her mother, and were of ivory. 

On the top of the chest of drawers was stacked tidily a 
pile of books, the books Rebecca loved best and kept 
always near her. They were an odd mixture—^the Bible 
and Marcus Aurelius, Shakespeare and Little Women and 
Good Wives, Bums and Christina Rossetti, Browning and 
Brucy, A Little Worher for Christ. 

The room had two windows. One looked to the front 
of the house, and commanded a view of the lawn and 
the short drive fringed by lilac and laburnum trees, the 
white gate and the high-road; the other looked west over 
the kitchen garden with its gooseberry bushes and rows 
of potatoes, over the fields where the Highland cattle 
grazed, over the Hope Water to where among the trees 
Phantasy stood. 

Phantasy was Rebecca’s one touch of romance. As a 


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child she had worshipped the young laird, he had seemed 
to her all the heroes of legend and fairy tale come to life. 
Phantasy itself was enchanted ground. To enter the 
gates had been high adventure. The Lodge with the 
honeysuckle, the long drive that wound away among the 
trees and crossed and recrossed the Hope Water, the park 
with the Japanese deer, the garden that lay all a-growing 
and a-blowing in the shelter of its high walls, the shaven 
lawns that ran up to meet the heather and the bracken 
of the hillside—all had a glamour in Rebecca’s eyes. 

She had sometimes gone to lunch at Phantasy with her 
parents when old Lady Ann was alive, and one always-to- 
be-remembered day the laird himself had been there. It 
was a party, and Rebecca had felt hopelessly out of place 
among a lot of people whose language she did not seem 
to know, and who viewed life from an entirely different 
angle. She had been sitting silent and lonely when 
Colonel Home came up to her and asked if she would 
care to see the garden. He had shown her everything 
he thought would interest her, and had talked to her in 
his rather slow, grave way, and later had himself driven 
them all home to the Manse in his motor-car, then a new 
and fearful innovation in Muirbum. 

Rebecca had not enjoyed the afternoon (at best it had 
been a kind of pleasing torture, for she had longed to be 
witty and amusing, and could think of nothing but the 
most empty commonplaces), but since then her heart had 
been at Archie Home’s feet. N^ot that he knew it was 
there. It is doubtful if he had even given Rebecca an¬ 
other thought. He had simply been sorry for the plain, 
shy girl, and had tried to make the time pass pleasantly 
for her, and was most thankful when his task was over. 
Hidden away, unconfessed, he had an odd tenderness for 
the neglected things of this world—stray mongrels, home¬ 
less cats, unwanted children, plain, unattractive women. 


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Rebecca herself had no illusions. ^'How could I ever 
be anything to him?’’ she asked herself in scorn. “He 
probably hardly realises my existence.” But all the same 
Phantasy and its owner stood for all that was vivid in her 
grey life. 

Through the War she had prayed ceaselessly for his 
safety. In her desk, tucked securely away, was a photo¬ 
graph cut from some picture paper when he was awarded 
the H.S.O. and the Croix de Guerre. She had mounted 
it (rather clumsily) on pasteboard, and this she looked at 
night and morning. 

She had been happy in her dream, but now that Archie 
Home had come home to Phantasy she had tried to put 
it from her. She felt that it was not possible to dream 
even innocent dreams about being allowed to serve and 
look after a man when she was liable to meet the said 
man any day walking about with his dogs. 

She had spoken to him only twice since his home¬ 
coming: once when Rob had brought him in to tea (as 
luck would have it she had neglected to bake that day, 
and the bread was stale and there was no cake), and once 
when he had driven them in his car from Priorsford. 

Rob went a good deal to Phantasy, for the library was 
an irresistible attraction to him, but he could tell his sister 
little of what she wanted to know—if the servants looked 
after their master well, if his lame foot bothered him 
much, if he was content to be at home. 

“How should I know?” Rob protested, when asked 
those things. “He’s comfortable, of course. My word! 
I wish I had his books. ... I don’t see why he shouldn’t 
be contented. He will always be lame, but he can hobble 
about on the hills wonderfully, and he has more to live 
for than most men. I don’t suppose he has ever had 
much time for thinking of such things, but now that he’s 
settled at home he ought to marry. It’ll be a thousand 


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pities if he doesn’t. . . . I’ve been thinking, wouldn’t 
it be rather odd if the laird married the tenant of Little 
Phantasy ?” 

NTow, often had Rebecca said to herself, “He will 
marry, he must marry,” and had tried to picture to her¬ 
self the woman to whom the wondrous honour should 
fall. But to hear her brother casually suggest a bride— 
a girl she knew, a girl she did not particularly admire; 
pretty, Rebecca admitted, yes, and rich and kind, but, oh! 
not good enough for Archie Home—filled her with bitter 
wrath. She was thinking of her brother’s remark as she 
looked out of the window towards Phantasy; then she 
pushed in a drawer, and glanced round to see if she were 
leaving the room quite tidy. 

Going downstairs she saw through the open door Rob, 
bareheaded and without his coat, running the lawn- 
mower vigorously. 

“I’m going out, Rob,” she called, “to do some visiting. 
Jessie will give you your tea.” 

Robert Brand left the lawn and the mower and came 
towards his sister, wiping his brow. 

“That’s warm work! I’ll have a bath when I finish it 
and, like you, do some visiting. I’ll be sure to get tea 
somewhere, so tell Jessie not to bother.” 

Rebecca looked at her brother. “You’re great at going 
out to tea now. I’ve seen the day when wild horses 
wouldn’t have dragged you, but Miss Gilmour has 
worked a charm.” 

Robert’s hot face got hotter. 

“Oh, I may not go to Little Phantasy,” he said, with 
an air of great carelessness. “But I did promise to run 
in and show Specky how to dress flies, and he will be 
looking out for me. ... I may get tea at the Hopehead; 
I’ve got to see the shepherd’s wife there. Where are you 
going?” 


PINK SUGAR 


155 


Rebecca finished buttoning her glove. going to 

the Castle. I haven’t seen the Starks or the Taits for 
an age, and Jessie tells me that Nannie Tait isn’t well, 
and that her mother—Jessie’s mother—^thinks it may be 
the same trouble as the other had.” 

The minister’s honest face grew troubled. ‘‘Surely 
not. Jessie’s mother is an old ghoul. It’s probably 
nothing but a little cold. . . . Well, are you off? Look 
here, why not go into Little Phantasy for tea ? I’ll meet 
you there.” 

“Oh, I don’t think so. But I’ll see. Good-bye just 
now.” 

While Rebecca was gazing at her own reflection in her 
small greenish-hued mirror, Kirsty Gilmour was stand¬ 
ing at the toilet-table in her blue and white bedroom. 

All the windows stood wide open, and the chintz cur¬ 
tains swayed gently in the warm wind. The room was 
dainty with spotless muslin covers and cushions. A great 
bowl of roses stood on the dressing-table. Kirsty herself 
was a vision of delight in a soft white dress and a shady 
hat trimmed with roses. 

She was not thinking of what she looked like as she 
stood there before the mirror. She was smiling reminis¬ 
cently at something Bill had said, and thinking of the 
hundred little pleasant things that went to make up her 
day—ordering meals, consultations with Carty, hours 
spent with the children, hours in the garden, talks with 
Aunt Panny, Miss Wotherspoon’s moods, Easie’s imper¬ 
turbable good-humour, Nellie’s willing but violent service. 

She sighed, sighed not because her heart was heavy, but 
because it was satisfied. 

“I’m almost too happy,” she thought. “I feel as if I 
should be touching wood all the time. . . . And I’m not 
doing what I meant to do; I’m always turning aside and 


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doing things I like instead of disagreeable things like 
calling on people I don’t know. But to-day I shan’t put 
it off. To-day I’ll do it.” She nodded defiantly at her¬ 
self in the glass. ‘T’ll go to the Castle and s6e the people 
Mr. Brand told me about.” 

She pulled on a pair of gloves and ran downstairs. 

It was a delightful walk from Little Phantasy to Hawk- 
shaw Castle: down the garden by the side of the Hope 
Water to the bridge, a little way along the dusty high¬ 
road, and a short steep climb to the old keep. There was 
a cart-road which made a more gradual ascent, but Kirsty 
preferred the little path through the whins and the bushes 
of broom, green broom. 

The Castle stood on the brae looking down on the 
meeting of Tweed and Hope Water. A few very old 
yew-trees running eastward showed where once the avenue 
had been, and behind it the remains of a walled garden. 
Grim in the August heat stood the castle with its few 
deep windows, mere slits in the depths of the walls, mute, 
remote, like one who has outlived his time. At one end 
were a few out-houses and the cottage of the shepherd, 
Robert Stark. The forester, Tait, lived in the Castle 
itself, which, though ruinous, had for a hundred years 
housed the Hawkshaw forester. 

Kirsty always suffered miseries of shyness when she 
set out to call on her poor neighbours. 

^T’m not really pushing,” she told herself, as she ap¬ 
proached the shepherd’s door. ^T’m only calling to show 
an interest. It’s horrid to live near people and not know 
them. They’ll be quite nice to me, I’m sure.” 

The door of the Starks’ cottage stood wide open. A 
stone passage, sanded in an intricate design, led evidently 
to the kitchen, from whence came the sound of voices. 

Kirsty knocked. 

^^See whae that is,” some one said, and presently a 


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young man emerged and stood speecliless in the doorway. 

Mrs. Stark in?” Kirsty asked. 

Instead of replying, the young man shouted, ‘^Mither,” 
and retreated into the kitchen. His place was taken by 
an elderly woman, bent but carrying herself with dignity, 
with a stern face and grey hair brushed firmly back under 
a black lace cap. She looked inquiringly at Kirsty, who 
explained that she had come to live at Little Phantasy, 
and wished to make Mrs. Stark’s acquaintance. 

Ye’ll be Miss Gilmour ? Come in.” 

She led the way into the kitchen and, nodding towards 
an old man who was sitting in an armchair by the fire, 
said, ^That’s ma man. And that’s ma son William. He’s 
juist back frae the lamb-sales at St. Boswells.” 

William was the tall young man who had come to the 
door. He was standing now before the fire being ques¬ 
tioned by his father, the head shepherd, a tall, loosely 
built old man with a long face, a permanent pink flush 
on each high cheek-bone, and a thatch of white hair. 

He took his pipe out of his mouth for a minute when 
Kirsty came in, gave her a nod, and went on talking to 
his son. 

. . What did ye say he offered ye ?” 

William stared at the fire, and said in his slow, sweet 
voice, ^^Oh, he said, ‘I’ll tak them at thirty shillings the 
piece.’ ” 

“Ay, an’ what said ye to that ?” 

“I said,” Willie said gently, “I said that I wud raither 
tak them to hell.” 

The old man smoked in silence for a minute, then 
replied, “Ay, Wullie, faur better, faur better.” 

Mrs. Stark motioned Kirsty to a chair. She herself 
was seated before a small table in the window which held 
a work-basket and a pile of mending. 

“I’m nae guid at makin’ claes,” she told Kirsty, as she 


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proceeded to put a large patch on a pink-and-white striped 
shirt, ‘^but I can aye mend.” 

Kirsty sat down beside her and tried to think of some¬ 
thing to say. As a beginning she remarked that it seemed 
to her very romantic to live beside an historic castle, 
but Mrs. Stark refused to see anything romantic about 
it. 

^^It’s a terrible steerin’ place,” she complained, ^^near 
the road and the shop.” (It was a good half mile from 
either.) ‘We’ve only been here aboot ten years. Afore 
that we were miles frae a’thing, schule and kirk and shop 
and station. It was faur nicer—peaceful like.” 

“Still,” Kirsty began, when steps were heard outside 
and a youngish woman entered the kitchen. She had a 
long, mild face, and wore a blue print dress with a white 
sprig. She carried a large brown paper bag, and looked 
hot. 

Mrs. Stark’s greeting to the newcomer surprised and 
startled Kirsty. Fixing her with a cold eye while she bit 
off a thread, she said, “Three-quarters of an hour, Agnes, 
to run to the shop for sugar!” Then, with slow, thought¬ 
ful bitterness, "7 could thrust a sword through ye/' 

Agnes flushed deeper and looked deprecatingly at 
Kirsty. 

Mrs. Dickson wanted to show me a bedcover she’s 
finished, and there were a lot of customers. I couldna 
get away, Mither.” 

‘Tets! I wud like to see the body that wud keep me 
if I wanted awa’. Ye’re a puir cratur, Agnes Stark, 
hingin’ an’ gossipin’ in a shop. Eh, lass, ye are unlike 
yer mither.” 

“Well, well,” Agnes ejaculated, smiling forgivingly at 
her stem parent. “There’s no much harm in taking ma 
time over a message on a bonnie summer afternoon, an’ 
Mrs. Dickson’s rale guid company.” She turned to the 


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159 


visitor—Ye’ll be Miss Gilmour? Ay. I’ve seen ye 
at the kirk. I hope ye’re pleased wi’ our minister?” 

^^Oh, yes, indeed,” Kirsty said, much relieved to have 
a subject to talk about. think he’s an excellent 
preacher, and such a nice man. And Miss Brand must 
be a great help to him.” 

^^She’s a’ that,” Agnes agreed, but her mother de¬ 
murred. 

^What Miss Brand should dae is gang awa’ an’ tak a 
situation an’ let her brither tak a wife. It wud be faur 
better for the congregation, for she hes nae way wi’ the 
folk.” 

^^But, Mither,” Agnes expostulated, ‘^Miss Brand’s rale 
kind an’ well-meaning. If there’s sickness or trouble 
she’s aye there, an’ she’s a teacher in the Sabbath School 
and collects . . .” 

^^Oh, ay, but for a’ that I dinna like her.” Mrs. Stark 
stroked her mouth with her hand, a curious habit she had, 
as if she were stroking away the deep wrinkles round her 
mouth. ‘^She hesna a bonnie face, an’ ye see fine when 
she comes to the hoose that she feels she’s daein’ her 
duty. I’ve seen her screw her face when I was speakin’ 
as if I was a dose o’ castor-ile. ... Not that Mrs. 
M’Candlish is ony better—waur if anything. She’s as 
per jink as a dancin’-mistress, an’ I canna stand her way 
of speakin’, it’s terrible angersome. An’ it maun tak the 
wumman hours to pit up her hair—sic a curls and twists! 
There’s one thing aboot Miss Brand, she disna gie a 
preen what she looks like. If her an’ the ither yin were 
cairded through each other they micht mak one wise-like 
wumman.” 

The good Agnes looked at Kirsty and shook her head, 
saying, ^^Ma mither disna mean a’ she says.” 

^^Div I no ?” her mother retorted wrathfully. ‘T mean 
faur mair. I could tell ye ma opeenion o’ . . .” 


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“Please, Mrs. Stark/^ Kirstj broke in, “don’t tell me 
your opinion of myself. I couldn’t bear it.” 

“D’ye tbink I’ve nae mainners?” asked Mrs. Stark, 
much affronted, while Agnes tried to create a diversion 
by asking her brother if a certain man had been at St. 
Boswells. 

Kobert Stark answered for his son. “I’ve been speirin’ 
that at him, but he says he disna ken. . . . An’ he disna 
ken wha bocht the Cor Water lambs.” He took a pinch 
of snuff, and finished, “I’m rale vexed for Wullie: he 
kens nocht.” 

Kirsty got up to go, feeling that this household was 
almost too much for her. 

Doesn’t some one live in the Castle ?” she asked, as 
she was leaving. 

“Ay, the Taits,” Agnes told her. “Mistress Tait’s a 
rale nice body, but it maun be eerie in that auld castle at 
nicht.” 

“Has she a husband ? And children ?” 

“Tait’s the wud-man,” said Mrs. Stark. “They hed 
three lassies, but theyVe only the yin left. Juist when 
they got to be aboot eighteen they fell into a decline. Ay, 
an’ I’m no sure aboot Hannie. She’s ower pure a colour, 
an she gies a nesty short cough whiles. But ye dauma 
say that to her mither, she’s fair fierce ower Hannie, 
and spiles the lassie. Wadna let us say a word when 
she cam hame frae her situation in Glesgae—she was a 
typewriter—an’ we a’ kent. . . . Weel, weel, a toon wi’ 
its temptations is nae place for a bonnie glaiket lassie. 
But it was a sair affront to her faither and mither, for 
they’re dacent folk.” 

Oh, Mither! Agnes murmured, and Kirsty made her 
escape. 

At the gate she met Eebecca Brand. 

“Are you going to call on Mrs. Stark?” she cried. 


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161 


^^Isn’t she awful said Rebecca with simple directness. 
“It’s a positive penance to go” (Kirsty recalled Mrs. 
Stark’s apt simile about Rebecca’s face and the dose of 
castor-oil), “but it would never do to visit Mrs. Tait 
and leave her out. She’s a rude old woman. I always 
leave her with a lowered opinion of every one in the 
neighbourhood. . . . Rob likes her—^would you believe 
it ?—and she is never nasty about him.” 

“I expect,” Kirsty said, “Mr. Brand stands up to her, 
and she likes it. . . . I’m going now to the Castle.” 

“I’ve just been there—^you’ll find Mrs. Tait very dif¬ 
ferent from Mrs. Stark. Well . . .” 

“Come in to tea on your way home,” Kirsty urged, but 
Rebecca would not promise. 

Kirsty went through the courtyard to the front entrance 
with its six half-circular steps. The heavy nail-studded 
door stood open, and led into a hall with doors opening 
from it; but there was no sign of the place being in¬ 
habited, and when she pushed open one of the doors she 
found the room within empty and unfurnished. 

She climbed the stair and came to a landing with two 
doors. One she pushed gently open, and saw that within 
was a finely proportioned room panelled in white, now 
very cracked and grey. A tub of clothes soaking for the 
wash stood on a stand, some brushes hung on a nail, and 
at the far end of the room was another door from behind 
which came the sound of voices. She walked across to 
this door and knocked, and it was opened almost im¬ 
mediately by a gentle-faced woman. 

“Ay,” she said, in response to Kirsty’s inquiring, 
“Mrs. Tait ?” “Come in. I ken ye fine by sight. You’re 
Miss Gilmour at Phantasy. Kannie, here’s a visitor. 
This is ma dochter. Miss Gilmour. She’s hame for a 
holiday.” 

The room, a kitchen, was long and narrow, with a 


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window at either end. Even on this blazing August 
afternoon it was shadowy, and Kirsty wondered what it 
eould be like in winter. It was panelled like the other 
room, but a brightly flowered paper had been plastered 
over the wood. Along one side of the room were two 
fixed-in wooden beds valanced with turkey-red. A door 
near the fireplace opened into another smaller room, 
which was ^Nannie’s bedroom. A dresser with dishes 
stood near one window, and in the other was a round 
table laid for tea. Out of the shadows came a girl, and 
Kirsty at once thought of Evelyn Hope: 

^^Why your hair was amber I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium’s red. . . 

She held out a slim hand to Kirsty, brought forward a 
chair, and smiled without speaking. 

Her mother gave her an anxious look, but said brightly, 
^^NTannie hasna been juist that awfu’ weel this while 
back; bloodless a wee thing, mebbe, but the doctor’s gi’en 
her a tonic, so she’ll sune be a’richt.” 

^^I’m quite well,” said NTannie, and gave a short cough. 

She had nothing of her mother’s broad Border accent: 
her speaking was colourless and correct. 

Kirsty turned to her. ^'How glad you must be to come 
home to this lovely place. Is your work in a town? 
Rather nice to come from the roar of trafSc to lie and 
listen to Tweed.” 

Kannie looked over her shoulder to where, through the 
narrow window, she could see the silver water running 
between green banks, and shivered. 

'Tt’s a lonely sound,” she said. ^T’m afraid I like the 
town best. Glasgow’s awful bright, and always some¬ 
thing to do, picture-houses and places to dance—a girl 
need never weary.” 

^^Oh, Kannie lass,” her mother sighed. 


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163 


‘^But it’s quite true/’ Kirsty agreed. ‘^It is dull for a 
young girl who naturally wants dancing and fun. But 
after working all day in an office or in a shop it must he 
terribly tiring to dance for hours. ITo wonder you needed 
to come home for a rest, Miss NTannie. I expect you both 
work hard and play hard.” 

^^Oh, well, I don’t know. I’m fearfully fond of danc¬ 
ing.” She gave a laugh and a cough and looked at her 
mother. ^^Mother thinks it’s wicked to dance. She 
doesn’t admire my silver slippers,” she nodded towards 
an old wooden chair with arms on which stood a pair of 
slippers—bring them out to look at them sometimes 
just to mind me that I used to have some fun. It’s such 
a short life, I don’t see why we shouldn’t enjoy it as we 
like.” 

‘Wheesht, Hannie . . . Miss Gilmour, wud ye tak a 
cup o’ tea ? Nannie and me were juist gaun to sit doon.” 

^^Oh, have I been keeping you? I’m so sorry. No, 
thank you very much, I must go home to tea. I have a 
household to look after.” 

^^Ay, they tell me ye have bairns in the hoose.—They’ll 
be freends—relations?” 

^^No, no relation. Their mother is dead, and their 
father is abroad. I am so enjoying having them. . . . 
Bo you care for reading. Miss Nannie? Wouldn’t you 
come down and get some books, and see the children? 
They might amuse you.” 

Nannie shook her head. don’t go far from the Cas¬ 
tle. It’s such a pull up to get home, and I can’t be both¬ 
ered walking much. Thanks all the same.” 

Mrs. Tait went with Kirsty through the white-panelled 
outer room, down the stairs to the door. 

^^Nannie’s no ill, ye ken. Miss Gilmour. Ye dinna 
think she looks ill?” 

^^She is lovely. I’ve seldom seen such hair and eyes, 


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and such a complexion. !No wonder the child loves gaiety. 
She is meant to he admired.” 

“Dinna say that. I wud rather she had been as plain- 
heided as Agnes Stark than what she is. Beauty’s a 
snare, I tell ye. . . . Weel, I’m glad ye came, Miss Gil- 
mour. Good-day to ye.” 

When Kirsty went through the doorway into the light 
she was almost dazzled hy the brightness of the after¬ 
noon. Blinking she took her way across the courtyard, 
and as she went through the crumbling archway she saw 
two figures just before her. They turned at her ap¬ 
proach, and she saw that they were Behecca Brand and 
Archie Home. 

^^Is the whole of Muirhum visiting to-day ?” she asked, 
as she greeted them. ^^Miss Brand, what was Mrs. Stark 
like to you ?” 

^Wery sneisty/^ said Eehecca. 

''That’s a good word,” said Colonel Home. "It’s long 
since I heard it, and it exactly describes our friend.” 

"Oh, you have little to complain of,” Eehecca told him. 
"She positively fawned on you. I was thankful when 
you came in.” 

Archie Home laughed. "I enjoy a talk with old Stark. 
I like his soft, slow speech, and he’s a sound judge of 
both men and sheep.” 

"He was very rude to his poor son,” Kirsty broke in, 
"as rude as Mrs. Stark was to her daughter. How came 
it that such caustic parents produced two such gentle crea¬ 
tures as Agnes and Willie ?” 

"They are almost middle-aged,” Eehecca said, "and 
they allow themselves to be treated like children. Poor 
Agnes hardly dares go an errand without her mother’s 
consent, and Willie isn’t allowed to smoke.” 

"I suppose,” said Colonel Home, "they are too peace- 
loving to make a fuss about it and get their own way. I 


PINK SUGAR 


165 


remember my mother used to teU me about the Stark 
children. When they lived up at Cor Water they had 
to walk eight miles to school at Muirburn. One day my 
mother met them and asked Willie, a little white-headed 
boy, what his name was. 

“ ‘Wullie,’ he said. 

‘And what more V 

“ Nocht mair.’ ” 

They had reached the high-road. Kirsty turned to 
Rebecca and urged her to come to tea. “Visiting Mrs. 
Stark is such thirsty work,” she pleaded, “and Little 
Phantasy is- so near. Colonel Home, you will come too.” 

“Thanks, I’d like to,” said the laird. 

But Rebecca shook her head. 

“Do come,” Kirsty’s voice was urgent. 

“Hot to-day,” said Rebecca firmly. “I have still some 
of my district to collect for the ‘Highlands and Islands,’ 
and this is a chance to do it”; and she turned, leaving 
Kirsty and her landlord standing together, and took her 
way along the dusty white road. 


Chapter XV 

“As I gaed east by Tarland toun 
I heard a singin’ neath the mune: 

A lass sang in a milk-white goon 
Aneath a hawthorn tree. 

The sma’ green trees bowed doon till her. 

The blooms they made a croon till her, 

I was a graceless loon till her. 

She frowned and scorned at me.” 

Marion Angus in ‘‘The Lilt** 

IRSTY turned, somewliat unwillingly, from watch- 
XV. ing Eebecca’s retreating back to walk home with 
her landlord. She wished Rebecca had not been so firm 
in her refusal. What was to hinder her, when she was 
so near, going on to Little Phantasy ? Then she, Rebecca, 
would have made conversation with Colonel Rome, while 
she, Kirsty, would have enjoyed the walk. It was so 
difficult knowing what to say to her landlord—unless she 
scolded him. Her face fiushed as she cast a side glance 
at her companion, wondering if he remembered against 
her the impertinent onslaught she had made on him the 
day of the Hopecarton picnic. That day seemed a long 
time ago now, and she had met her landlord frequently 
since them at various small festivities, and in her own 
house,^ but she had never been alone with him. Any¬ 
way, it was no good trying to talk, she decided. Her 
crumbs of conversation seemed despicable surrounded by 
his large silence. It was easy, after all, to behave like a 
post and say nothing. She would be silent too. 

They walked on together, neither speaking until they 
came to the bridge over Tweed, when they both turned 
hack to look at the Castle. Surprisingly enough, it was 
Colonel Home who spoke first. 

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167 


Folding his arms on the parapet of the bridge he said, 
‘^This is the view I like best. You get the sweep of the 
river in front, and the green hillside with its grej bould¬ 
ers and whin-bushes, then Hawkshaw, battered but un¬ 
defeated, with its bodyguard of ancient yews—don’t they 
look like the struggling remnant of an army?—and be¬ 
hind the Hawkshaw woods.” 

Kirsty nodded. ^^They were clever people who planted 
that wood with its contrasts. The larches seem to laugh 
among the solemn pines. I never realised till to-day how 
very old and eerie it is. ... You know the people who 
live in it, of course? The man, Tait, is the forester, I 
think. I went to see Mrs. Tait this afternoon. Have 
you ever been inside the Castle, I mean in the rooms 
the Taits use? The ground floor seems to be used only 
for storing things, at least I could see no signs of habita¬ 
tion. I climbed the stair, and on the first landing there 
was a door standing open. I looked in and found what 
must once have been a reception room, a lovely room, 
white-panelled. There was nothing in it but a tubful of 
clothes and some brooms, but at the far end there was 
another room—the Taits’ living-room. Such a queer 
room, long and narrow, with slits of windows: it must 
always be twilight there. . . . Have you seen Mrs. Tait’s 
daughter Hannie ?” 

^^Hot to my knowledge,” said Colonel Home. 

‘^She is the loveliest thing. In that dusky room she 
was like a flame. I could do nothing but look at her. 
But I’m afraid she is ill. She coughs, the child; and 
her mother sits with such an anxious little face, always 
her eyes on the girl but never caught looking. The 
woman with the tongue next door, Mrs. Stark, told me 
that Hannie is all she has left; she had two other girls 
who died of consumption.” 

^^Yes. I remember hearing about it; my mother visited 


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them. . . . But surely something should be done at once. 
If she went to a sanatorium now she might be cured. Has 
a doctor seen her?” 

think so,” Kirsty said. ^^But, you see, the difficulty 
is that the poor mother won’t own to herself that the girl 
is ill, and every one else seems so apathetic, so fatalistic 
‘—the sisters died, so this child is doomed. . . . Some¬ 
thing, of course, ought to be done, but it is so difficult to 
know what is best. So many people have a horror of 
sanatoriums: they cling to their homes, such as they are, 
and would rather die comfortably in a frowst than linger 
on exposed to all the winds of heaven—and I don’t know 
that I wouldn’t prefer it myself.” 

^Hut that is hardly the point,” Colonel Home said, his 
arms still folded on the parapet, his eyes on grey Hawk- 
shaw. ^^The girl ought to be given a chance of life. She 
doesn’t know what is best for herself. If she stays here 
shut up in a stuffy kitchen, in a mouldering old castle, 
the winter will kill her. I must see Brand about it, and 
ask him what can be done. The parents need be put to 
no expense.” 

You’re kind,” said Kirsty, looking at him as if sur¬ 
prised, ‘ffiut do you mind letting me try first what I can 
do? I’m anxious to help people, and no one seems to 
want my help.” She laughed a little ruefully. went 
there to-day quite by chance, so it almost looks as if I 
had been meant to help. But I don’t know what I can 
do. I hope I’ll be ^guided,’ as Miss Wotherspoon, our 
housemaid, would say. To take a young girl away from 
her home, from the surroundings that seem poor and 
stuffy to you but to her are dear because they are familiar, 
and place her among strangers where all is bleak and 
alien—well, it’s a risk.” 

‘^Yes, but if she can be persuaded that it is for her own. 
good-” 



PINK SUGAR 


169 

I came here,” Kirsty continued (she seemed to 
have forgotten her resolution to be a post and silent), ‘^1 
didn’t know much about how people lived, hut in Muir- 
burn, now that they have got used to me, they let me go 
in and out of the cottages, and I’ve been amazed to see a 
mother lying very ill in the kitchen-bed with the family 
life going on all about her—the children washing them¬ 
selves in the sink, having their meals, doing their lessons 
by the fire. And I’ve wondered if illness isn’t easier 
for those women than for better-off women who are shut 
away in a bedroom with a nurse, or in a nursing-home, 
with nothing round them but reminders of their illness, 
the world far away from them, no noise but the whisper 
of the nurse’s dress. ... I know I would rather be the 
poor woman and lie in the kitchen-bed, and have wee 
Tommy come to me to ask if his sum is correct, and lean 
on one elbow to tie Jeannie’s hair-ribbon, and give advice 
about frying potatoes. And if death comes it must lose 
some of its terror, surely, coming to the familiar kitchen, 
with the school-books scattered about and the tea-things 
on the table. ...” 

Kirsty stopped, suddenly ashamed to find herself talk¬ 
ing at such length. 

^^Shall we walk on ?” she said. ^Tt must be tea- 
time.” 

They turned down the little path at the end of the 
bridge which led to Phantasy grounds. 

‘Tt’s chagrining to me,” said Kirsty, looking up at her 
companion, ^‘to find myself talking so much. I meant 
to say not a word; to match you in silence.” She laughed. 
^^How do you manage to say so little, if it isn’t a rude 
question ?” 

Archie Home’s brown face fiushed slightly. 

‘T’m afraid I’m a very dull person,” he said stiffly, 
^^but at least I can appreciate the eloquence of others.” 


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“And that settles me/^ Kirsty said impudently. “Oh, 
do just look at the foxgloves!” 

At the edge of the wood was a knoll covered with them, 
standing high and proud with their heavy bells, purple 
and white. Kirsty sank down on the moss the better to 
admire their beauty. 

“Isn’t it a queer mixy-maxy world?” she said after a 
minute, bending a white foxglove to her face as she spoke. 
“Shadows of sadness and age in the old castle, shadows of 
bright youth coming quick to confusion, and out here the 
summer sun and foxgloves. . . . How I wish there was 
no sadness in life! I do think if I had been making a 
world I would have arranged that every one should be 
happy.” 

Colonel Home did not answer. He stood leaning on 
his stick, watching her kneeling there among the fox¬ 
gloves in her white dress and wide rose-trimmed hat. Her 
hair was honey-coloured, he decided. With her green 
eyes and delicately tinted face she made him think of 
some old tale of faery. Even so he thought might the 
Queen of Elfland have looked to mortals, who, seeing her 
once, never more found earthly rest. 

They were walking on towards Little Phantasy when 
he said suddenly, “You must always have been happy.” 

It was a statement more than a question. 

“Must I?” said Kirsty. “Do you mean because IVe 
always had money and good clothes, and a fairly decent 
face, and seen a good bit of the world? But I don’t 
think these things make you happy at all. Happiness is 
a gift, and people who are born with it have it always, 
no matter what happens to them. I haven’t got it—at 
least if I have it it hasn’t revealed itself. You see, it is 
no credit to me to be happy now, when I’ve got every sin¬ 
gle thing in the world I want.” 

“Every single thing?” 


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171 


Xirsty nodded. ^Well, pretty nearly.” 

^^Lncky woman!” 

Kirsty looked at him. ^^You sound very unbelieving. 
Don’t you think we were meant to he happy? Or are 
you like Charlotte Bronte, who complained that life was 
'bitter, brief, and blank’ ?” 

"Did she say that? I suppose it is true—^for many 
people.” 

"But,” Kirsty protested, "isn’t it largely their own 
fault ? One finds what one looks for. I’m a sentimental¬ 
ist, I suppose. You are a serious thinker, and the differ¬ 
ence between us is that you like to stare piercingly at all 
the terrible things in life, while I turn away my head 
and look at foxgloves. I believe that things are bound 
to come right in the end in spite of so much that is ugly, 
while you rather hope they won’t so that you won’t be 
proved wrong.” 

Colonel Home deigned no reply to this speech, but 
after a minute he said, "There is something to be said for 
the pink-sugar view of life.” 

"Pink sugar!” cried Kirsty, and laughed a little. "It’s 
odd that you should say that. . . . When I was a child 
I was taken once to a market held in a little town. I 
was allowed to ride on a merry-go-round and gaze at all 
the wonders—fat women, giants, and dwarfs. But what 
I wanted most of all I wasn’t allowed to have. At the 
stalls they were selling large pink sugar hearts, and I 
never wanted anything so much in my life; but when 
I begged for one I was told they weren’t wholesome and I 
couldn’t have one. I didn’t want to eat it—as a matter 
of fact I was allowed to buy sweets called Market Mix¬ 
tures, and there were fragments of the pink hearts among 
the curly-doddies and round white hoots, and delicious 
they tasted. I wanted to keep it and adore it because of 
its pinkness and sweetness. Ever since that day when I 


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was taken home begrimed with weeping for a ^heart/ I 
have had a weakness for pink sugar. And good gracious V’ 
she turned to her companion, swept by one of the sudden 
and short-lived rages which sometimes seized her, 
^^surely we want every crumb of pink sugar that we can 
get in this world. I do hate people who sneer at senti¬ 
ment. What is sentiment after all ? It^s only a word for 
all that is decent and kind and loving in these warped 
little lives of ours. ...” 

^^Quite so,” said Colonel Home, and Kirsty was si¬ 
lenced. , 

As they neared Little Phantasy they met Barbara, or 
rather they saw her in a tree, and she shouted to them: 

^^Pie, what do you think ? Miss Wotherspoon fell over 
Bill with a tray and broke all the lunch things. And 
she’s got a heart attack, and so has Aunt Fanny.” 

Barbara told her news with immense gusto. 

‘^But where was Bill,” Kirsty asked, ‘^that he man¬ 
aged to trip Miss Wotherspoon?” 

^Well,” said Barbara, hanging dangerously,by an arm 
and one foot from a branch, her long plaits touching the 
ground, ^Fe was being an alligator just inside the dining¬ 
room door.” 

Kirsty turned to her landlord. 

^What a blessing you came home with me,” she said. 

think you had better speak to Bill in the tone that you 
use at court-martials and things, for nothing I say has any 
effect. It’s ridiculous to be beaten by a child of that 
age.” 

‘^It’s Bill who ought to be beaten,” Colonel Home said. 

Kirsty’s face got pink at the suggestion. ^^Oh, dear 
me, no. It isn’t as if he were really bad, as if he told lies 
and cheated. It’s only that the things that occur to him 
to do have such disastrous results. There was no real 


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173 


harm in his being an alligator, but what induced him to 
be one in the dining-room door?’^ 

expect he remembered that the tray would he com¬ 
ing in and, like an alligator, he waited.” 

Kirsty began to laugh. ‘^Poor Miss Wotherspoon! 
And poor Aunt Fanny! Whenever I go out something 
like this happens. . . . Here is the little scoundrel!” 

Along the path by the Hope Water came a small figure 
in blue. The sun shone on his yellow head, and his blue 
eyes were as innocent as the speedwell fiower they so 
resembled. He showed no guilt on seeing Kirsty and 
her companion, hut greeted them cordially: 

^^Hullo, Pie! Hullo, Colonel Home!” 

Pie gazed at him reproachfully, while Colonel Home 
said, ‘^Hullo, Sykes!” 

Bill did not seem to mind the reproach of the name, 
hut slipped his hand confidingly into the tall man’s, as if 
he found him a kindred spirit. 

^^Bill, what have you been doing?” Kirsty asked. 

^H’ve been doing nothing,” said Bill, ^^hut Miss 
Wotherspoon’s broke a lot of glasses and things.” 

^^But you made her, you wretched child!” 

was only a nalligator,” Bill said blandly. “And 
people who walk on nalligators are sure to get bitten.” 

“Bill,” almost shrieked Kirsty, “you didn’t bite Miss 
Wotherspoon ?” 

“Only a little,” said Bill lightly, “not nearly as had as 
a nalligator generally bites: she had such thich stock¬ 
ings.” 

Kirsty gazed despairingly at her landlord. 

“I’ll fly home,” she said, “and see how things are. You 
bring Bill, will you?” 

It was much too hot to run, and Kirsty got crosser 
every step she took. As she neared the house she saw 
Specky, that patient fisher, diligently casting in his worm. 


174. 


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^^Come and watcli me, Pie,” lie invited her, hut she 
merely shouted as she ran, ^^Stop fishing at once, and 
come in and wash your hands for tea.” 

there is any tea,” she said to herself, as she ran 
across the lawn and entered the house by the drawing¬ 
room window. 

There was no one in the drawing-room. 

Tea was laid as usual in the dining-room, but there 
was no one there. 

Kirsty went up to her aunt’s room, knocked, and 
went in. 

Miss Fanny, looking shaken, was reading her Bible. 

^Well, Aunt Fanny,” said Kirsty in loud, cheerful 
tones, ^fisn’t it a perfect afternoon? I’ve been making 
calls, and I terribly want my tea. Colonel Home is with 
me. Where is Carty?” 

believe Miss Carter is in the garden with Mr. 
Brand. He came about half an hour ago. I saw him 
pass the window. Miss Carter was getting flowers at 
the time, and I expect he stayed to help her.” Miss 
Fanny spoke in a resigned monotone. 

^Well,” said Kirsty, ^Ve’d better ring the bell and 
summon them all. Are you ready to come down. Aunt 
Fanny?” 

think, my dear, I won’t come down. I’ve been 
rather upset. Bill-” 

know,” Kirsty interrupted. hear the little ruffian 
has been playing some game and frightened Miss Wother- 
spoon, and I expect she frightened you. . . . Hever 
mind, dear Aunt Fanny, come down and have tea, and 
be cheered up by Mr. Brand. He will tell you all about 
the Sale of Work they are going to have, and you’ll for¬ 
get all about Bad Bill.” 

^^Kirsty,” Miss Fanny said solemnly, ^ffie is not a nice 
child.” 



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“Oil, my poor Bill! He doesn’t mean any harm. He 
is only five, Aunt Fanny. Were you a model at five 
“I certainly never bit housemaids, Kirsty, at any age, 
or I would have been severely punished. Poor Miss 
Wotherspoon has had a great shock. She says such a 
thing never happened to her before, and I can well be¬ 
lieve it. . . . You can’t mean to let that child sit down 
to table as if nothing had happened?” 

Kirsty stood fingering the little books on the table, 
^^ut he was an alligator,” she pleaded. “He would 
never have bitten her as Bill. ... I shall have to talk 
to him very seriously to-night. After all he is very obe¬ 
dient, you must admit. You see, he had never been told 
not to bite Miss Wotherspoon.” She gave a sudden gig¬ 
gle. “I’ve sometimes felt like biting her myself.” 

Aunt Fanny bit her lip, and turned, with a patient 
sigh, to tidy her hair at the glass. 

Kirsty proceeded to visit the victim of the assault. 

She found her sitting in one armchair with her leg on 
another, a bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. 

Kirsty addressed her in bracing accents, but it was at 
once evident to the meanest intelligence that the victim 
had no intention of being braced. She rolled her head 
heavily on the cushions, and said that she was “fair 
done.” Easie and Kellie were both ministering to her. 

“He couldnt have hurt you much,” Kirsty told her; 
^file’s so little, almost a baby.” 

“He’s a little callous clown,” Miss Wotherspoon said 
feebly, but with conviction. 

^^o, he’s not,” said Kellie fiercely. 

Miss Wotherspoon closed her eyes. 

“I hope you will soon feel better. Miss Wotherspoon,” 
Kirsty said. “Don’t you think you should go to bed? 
Kellie, please make the tea and take it to the dining-room 
and sound the gong.” 


176 


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will that,” said !Nellie, delighted to have the oppor¬ 
tunity. 

It was a large and cheerful party that Kirsty looked 
round at as she poured out tea. Even Miss Fanny, 
flanked on one side by Mr. Brand and on the other by 
Miss Carter, and removed as far as possible from Bill, 
had recovered something of her usual calm. They were 
just beginning when they heard the sounds of a motor on 
the drive. 

^^Yisitors,” said Kirsty. She caught Miss Carter’s eye 
and groaned. ^^Only Kellie to open the door, and she 
knows about as much of a parlour-maid’s work as a 
stot!” 

They heard her rush panting through the hall, and 
presently she appeared, and leaning over Kirsty’s shoul¬ 
der whispered loudly, ‘^It’s a wumman. I mean it’s twae 
weemen. I speired at them what they wanted, an’ they 
gied me a ticket.” She produced as if by sleight of hand 
a card, and Kirsty read— 

^Mrs. Duff-Whally 
Miss Duff-Whally 

The Towers, 

Priorsford.’’ 

^^And where are the ladies ?” she asked. 

^'Standin’ on the doorstep. What’ll I dae wi’ them ?” 
Kellie stood poised, looking ready for anything, however 
desperate. 

^^'Ask them to come in. Ko—^wait—I’ll go,” and 
Kirsty went out of the room and returned presently with 
the visitors, explaining to them, as room was made at the 
table and clean cups brought, that the parlour-maid was 
not feeling well, and that Kellie was still unaccustomed to 
opening the door to visitors. 

^^That was evident,” said Mrs. Dufl-Whally. 


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177 


^^Let me introduce you. . . . My aunt, Miss Gilmour 
■—Mrs. Duff-Whally, Miss Duff-Whally. Miss Carter—I 
expect you know Colonel Home and Mr. Brand 

Mrs. Duff-Whally passed over poor Miss Fanny and 
Miss Carter and Robert Brand with a mere flick of her 
fingers; but Colonel Home she pounced upon, taking the 
chair beside him just vacated most reluctantly by Bill. 

^^Oh, Colonel Home, I am so glad to see you again. It 
was such a pleasure to meet you at the Manse garden 
party, but we have been so disappointed, Muriel and I, 
not to have seen you since. We have been so unfortunate 
with our invitations to you. You seem a man of many 
engagements.” Colonel Home’s face wore a guilty look. 

am so glad you have settled down among us. We are 
in such need of nice men in this district.” 

She looked so arch that Kirsty almost feared that she 
might prod the object of her attention in the ribs. 

‘^Oh—thanks,” he said miserably. ^‘It’s most kind of 

you to ask me, but as a matter of fact—I—I- Have 

you come recently to Tweeddale ?” 

^^Oh, dear, no. We have lived at The Towers, Priors- 
ford, for quite ten years now, and, of course, we know 
every one. But Muirburn is a little out of our beat, and 

rather a dull district socially-and then of course you 

have only recently come back, so we haven’t met. . . . 
NTow that you at Phantasy and Lady Carruthers at Ed- 
monston Hall we shall expect great things of Muirburn. 
You, too. Miss Gilmour, will probably be entertaining as 
much as you can.” 

^^ISTo,” said Kirsty. ‘T don’t expect I shall entertain. 
I’m what is known as a recluse.—Do have one of these 
wheaten scones.” 

Mrs. Duff-Whally stared at her hostess. 

“A recluse! But what a strange idea for a young 
woman. Almost as if you had something to hide. How,. 



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I should have thought you would have wanted all the 
dances and tennis parties and things you could get. You 
must speak to your niece, Miss Gilmour. Youth doesn’t 
last so very long. My Muriel there is game for any¬ 
thing-” She looked round the table, then addressed 

Kirsty: ^^Are these children your niece and nephews 

^^N'o,” said Kirsty, pouring out some milk for Bill. 

‘^Aren’t they relatives at all 

^^Ko,” said Kirsty, then, seeing all sorts of questions 
forming in the ferret-like eyes of her visitor, she said in 
a low voice, ^^Their mother was the sister of my greatest 
friend. She is in India with her husband and couldn’t 
take the children, so I gladly offered to take charge of 
them for some months.” 

see.” Mrs. Duff-Whally gazed searchingly at each 
child in turn. ^^And their father?” she asked. 

Kirsty, to her intense annoyance, suddenly found her¬ 
self blushing. Every moment she got redder, until she 
felt that even her ears and neck must be scarlet; her very 
eyes were suffused. She felt Mrs. Duff-Whally’s gaze 
on her, she knew that Colonel Home had looked at her 
and had immediately looked away again. She made her 
voice coldly indifferent as she replied, ‘^He has gone 
abroad for a time.” 

see,” said Mrs. Duff-Whally, and there was infinite 
meaning in her tone. 

Kirsty, furious, and holding her head very high, turned 
to Mr. Brand and began on the first topic that presented 
itself to her. 

called on the Starks to-day. You didn’t prepare me 
for such a unique couple.’^ 

Mr. Brand laughed, and Colonel Home, after a brief 
glance at Kirsty’s still crimson face, broke, surprisingly, 
into an anecdote. 

'^Speaking about alligators,” he said with a smile to 



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Bill, must tell you wliat old Stark said to me once. 
He was by way of giving me good advice, and be finished, 
^Eh, Mr. Erchie, dinna marry for love. I yince married 
for love, an’ noo I wud marry an alligawtor, if she’d juist 
a pickle siller.’ ” 

^^How quaint!” said Mrs. Duff-Whally, ^fisn’t it, Mu¬ 
riel ? And you speak the dialect so wonderfully for a gen¬ 
tleman.” 

Kirsty looked gratefully at her landlord as she said, 
like the idea of the Alligawtor’ in white satin and a 
veil going up the aisle to the strains of the Wedding 
March.” 

A silence followed the general laughs which was broken 
by Bill saying suddenly and very distinctly: 

‘^Carty, have you ever been drunk ?” 

It was now Miss Carter’s turn to blush. 

^^Ho—^no. Hush, and go on with your tea.” 

‘Well,” said Bill, not rudely, but as if he were making 
a simple statement of fact, “I expect your father has 
been—often.” 


Chapter XVI 


“I should like to set up my tabernacle her© ... I 
am content.” 


Charles Lamb. 


day may be described as a rush,” Kirsty said, 

A as she walked one morning in the garden with 
Miss Carter in the interval between breakfast and les¬ 
sons. The children had gone off to feed the rabbits, 
and to get rid of some of their superfluous energy by 
galloping wildly through the garden. ‘Tor a’ the warld 
like young colts,’’ said Easie, as she watched them sym¬ 
pathetically. 

“What happens to-day ?” Stella Carter asked. 

“Why, I’m going out both to luncheon and tea—lunch¬ 
eon at Edmonston Hall, tea at Cherrytrees. Such gaiety 
almost amounts to excess. . . . I’ll walk, I think, to 
Edmonston Hall, and will you bring the children in the 
pony-trap to Cherrytrees? Mrs. Hay kindly said she 
wanted us all to come, and I meant to order a car from 
Priorsford, but Aunt Fanny firmly refused to move. 
Couldn’t you persuade her, Carty ? It would be a change 
for her, and if she only would make the effort I am sure 
she would enjoy going.” 

Miss Carter shook her head. “I don’t believe she 
would. Hot with the children there. She will enjoy 
much more , staying quietly at home, knowing that they 
are all safely out of the way. . . . I’m afraid Bill wor¬ 
ries her a good deal. She is always waiting to hear his 
latest crime—poor old Bill!” 

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181 


“But, Carty, can you understand any one not liking 
Bill, in spite of his faults V’ 

Stella Carter laughed. “I’m ashamed to confess I’m 
his slave. That little golden-hrown face of his is so at¬ 
tractive, and there is so much in the child of affection 
and kindness as well as pure devilment.” 

Kirsty laid her arm caressingly on Stella’s shoulder. 

“My dear,” she said, “you adore them all, and I love 
you for it.” 

“Oh, well! I defy any one to keep from falling under 
Specky’s spell, and Barbara, dear lamb, so nerve-shatter¬ 
ing but so loving—they really are all a bit extra!” 

“You’re happy here, Carty ?” 

“Happy ?” Miss Carter turned frank eyes on her 
questioner. “I’ve never been anything like as happy all 
my life. I only wish I could stay here always.” 

“So do I, most earnestly. If only we could continue 
just as we are now!” and Kirsty sighed as she turned 
away to interview Easie. Afterwards she wrote some 
letters and talked to Miss Fanny, then got ready for her 
walk. 

She was glad of the three miles in her own company, 
for she wanted to think. At home she was seldom alone. 
Always one or other of the children claimed her atten¬ 
tion, or the servants wanted pacifying, or Miss Fanny had 
to be read to and petted and laughed out of her fears. 
And Stella and she had so much to say to each other 
when there were a few spare minutes. And the garden 
called aloud to her in those mellow August days. So that 
when night came she was too tired to think, and could 
only tumble into dreamless sleep. 

It was a lovely day for a walk, warm but not heavy. A 
gentle wind full of sweet scents came in refreshing puffs. 
Tweed, like a broad silver ribbon in the sunshine, un¬ 
wound itself, now between yellowing cornfields, and now 


182 


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through green marshy places, while the hills glowed like 
misty amethysts. 

Kirsty felt her throat tighten as she looked at the 
beauty round her. !No grandeur of soaring snow-peaks or 
dark lochs shadowed by majestic mountains could move 
her as did the pastoral beauty of this her own beloved 
Border country. 

Then she set herself to consider things. Like Charles 
Lamb she could say, 'T am content,” and like him she 
wanted to stop at this part of her life, to keep things un¬ 
changed. But in her heart she knew that the present 
state of affairs could not last; there was no stability in it 
whatsoever. True, she had Little Phantasy on a lease of 
three years, but she was beginning to realise that the 
place would mean little to her without the children, and 
some day—any day—^their father might come rushing 
home and claim them. 

And as Kirsty thought of Alan Crawford she remem¬ 
bered the foolish school-girlish way she had blushed at the 
mention of his name before Mrs. Duff-Whally and Colonel 
Home, and remembering, she blushed again from sheer 
annoyance. 

That morning she had received a letter from Alan 
Crawford, a letter written from some far port in sunny 
seas! It was a charming letter, giving glimpses of people 
he met, places he saw, thoughts he had. It was one of 
many; and Kirsty was learning to look forward to those 
letters. The writer had the gift of getting himself 
through the paper and ink, of making his personality felt 
in the written word. Kirsty had only known him for 
twenty-four hours in the flesh, and she and Miss Fanny 
had often smiled together to think how quickly they had 
become almost intimate with him, and how vivid a 
meraory he had left. But his letters were far more com¬ 
pelling. Kirsty was almost startled sometimes to find 


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183 


how easily and how often her thoughts turned to the 
traveller. 

A sentence at the end of the letter she had got from 
him that morning kept recurring to her. He had been 
talking of the picturesque gay port they were calling at, 
of the warm tropical seas, the blazing stars, the velvet 
nights. ^^But,” he finished, ^^somehow I feel apart from 
it all, often it vanishes, and in its place I see the green 
glens of Tweeddale, the hills above Priorsford (hear 
me name them—Hundleshope, Cademuir, the Black 
Meldon), the woods of Phantasy, its green pastures and 
still waters (Specky wearing a path with his patient 
feet), the scarred face of Ratchell Hill, the utter peace 
of summer nights in the uplands, my sleeping children 
—and you. ...” 

^^Of course,” Kirsty reminded herself, ^^Mr. Alan 
Crawford is by way of being an artist, and he sees things 
in pictures. Also, he is a very fiuent gentleman, and 
probably always says more than he means. You are a 
fool, my dear, to think that he means anything more than 
a youngish man with the artistic temperament writing in 
the moonlight in far-off seas would mean when he thinks 
of quite a good-looking young (or youngish) woman to 
whom he feels grateful for relieving him, for a time, of 
his responsibilities to his children.” 

But still there was a chance that he did mean some¬ 
thing, and if he did ? It meant that the spectre that so 
often lay at the back of her mind, the thought of a harsh, 
un-understanding stepmother, was dissolved, and it meant 
that the children were hers for “keeps”; but it also 
meant that Alan Crawford was hers for ^Ijeeps,” and 
that was not such a pleasant thought. 

But why not ? After all, Alan Crawford had much to 
recommend him. He was what men called a good sort; 
he was certainly extraordinarily good-looking; he was 


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an amusing companion; he would always he kind and 
agreeable. 

“It’s odd,” thought Kirsty, “but I don’t seem to like 
that kind of man much.” 

Then she upbraided herself for selfishness. She who 
had talked so glibly about “living for others,” when a 
chance lay to the hand feebly hesitated about taking it. 
Of course, it was going pretty far to marry for the sake of 
others, almost more than could be expected of any one. 

Kirsty, full of such perplexing thoughts, walked so fast 
in the August sun that when she reached the imposing 
gates of Edmonston Hall, like Mercy in The Pilgrim^s 
Progress, she was “all in a pelting heat,” and stood for a 
few minutes to cool herself and to study the most ornate 
gateway and gilded railings that guarded the entrance. 

“I suppose those are what are known as ^gilt-edged 
securities,’ ” she told herself, and laughed a little at her 
own joke. 

Two cars passed her in the drive, and realising that 
she had been bidden to a party, she wondered if she were 
smart enough. ^^Anyway I’m clean,” she thought, as she 
looked down at her fresh white coat and skirt. 

A butler admitted her and took her through a hall 
panelled in light wood to a drawing-room that seemed 
to extend as far as the eye could reach, carpeted with red 
carpet with an orange design. 

“There must be acres of it,” Kirsty thought, as she 
walked the whole length of the room to where her hostess 
sat in a large bay window talking to earlier arrivals. 

Everything in the room was large—^large sofas and 
armchairs, large oil-paintings in large gilt frames, large 
palmSj large cabinets with large Oriental vases standing 
on them, large polished tables on which were large books 
with coloured pictures. Kirsty felt crushed beneath it 
all as she shook hands with her large hostess, with whom 


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185 


were Mr. and Mrs. M’Candlish and another couple whom 
she did not know. It was a positive relief to turn to the 
small shrinking figure of her host. INo wonder, she 
thought, that Sir Andrew had such a crushed look. To 
possess such a house and such a wife must he like having 
a leviathan on a hook. 

‘T^m so glad to meet you,” she said to him. hear 
so much about you from Specky—^you know the little boy 
who lives at Little Phantasy and fishes all the time.” 

^^Oh, yes,” said Sir Andrew, not in the least as if he 
desired the conversation to continue. 

^^You were so good about helping him to untangle his 
line the other day. And you gave him an artificial min¬ 
now which is the delight of his life! He takes it to bed 
with him every night.” 

^‘He’s a queer wee chap,” said Sir Andrew. 

^^You are a keen fisher, aren’t you ?” 

^^Oh, no, I just do it to pass the time.” 

^^Oh,” said Kirsty, and conversation died at the foun¬ 
tain-head. 

'We are waiting for Mrs. Strang,” Lady Carruthers 
announced when every one had fallen hungrily silent. 

Kirsty studied the couple in the window, and decided 
that she liked the look of them. The man had a delight¬ 
ful shy smile and a scholar’s stoop, while his wife was 
out-of-the-ordinary attractive, with a dark grace that fas¬ 
cinated Kirsty. As the minutes passed, various reasons 
for Mrs. Strang’s unpunctuality were suggested. Mr. 
M’Candlish thought that she might be so absorbed in 
literary labours as to have lost count of time, while Sir 
Andrew said gloomily that her car had probably over¬ 
turned ; and while they argued about it Mrs. Strang was 
announced. Kothing had happened, she told them, 
except that she had not given herself enough time to come 
up from Priorsford, where she had been marketing, and 


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slie begged humbly to be forgiven. She seemed on the 
easiest terms with every one present. The strange 
couple she called by their Christian names; she gave 
Mr. M^Candlish news of some cuttings he wanted, and 
said she had got a new recipe for his wife. She turned 
to her host, and in a trice had him talking in almost an 
animated manner about some etching he had just bought, 
and the party went in to luncheon quite jauntily. 

Kirsty found herself at the left hand of her host, and 
opposite the tall slim woman whose name she did not 
know. Mrs. M’Candlish was beside her. She looked at 
her host sitting hunched dejectedly in his chair, she looked 
at her neighbour peeling off immaculate white kid gloves, 
and felt she was going to have a dull hour. 

The strange lady was trying to engage Sir Andrew in 
conversation, so she turned to Mrs. M’Candlish and be¬ 
gan on the weather. It was a safe topic, and one that 
could be made to last a considerable time. From the 
weather they passed to gardens, and Kirsty waxed enthu¬ 
siastic about the Manse garden, discussing irP detail the 
herbaceous borders and the joys of a rock garden. Gar¬ 
dens lasted till the sweets, when Kirsty turned to make 
an effort to converse with her host. His right-hand neigh¬ 
bour had given him up, and was talking merrily to Mrs. 
Strang. She shot Kirsty a grateful glance when she saw 
her address him, so evidently her conscience was not void 
of offence. 

^Mrs. M’Candlish and I have been talking about gar¬ 
dens,” Kirsty began brightly, trying to draw her neigh¬ 
bour in with her. ^^Didn’t you think the Manse garden 
was beautiful the day of the garden party 

^^Wasn’t there,” said Sir Andrew, looking mournfully 
into an empty glass. He drank nothing but water. 

^^You have fine gardens, I know,” she continued 
bravely. ‘They must be a great pleasure to you.” 


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187 


never in them hardly. There is no pleasure in a 
garden when you’re knocking into gardeners at every 
step. What I like is a little hit of ground where you can 
potter about and do as you like.” 

‘^Oh, I know,” Kirsty agreed eagerly, thankful to have 
got an opinion out of him. ^That of course is the nicest 
thing, And even when you don’t know much about it, 
and make all sorts of mistakes, it merely adds to the fun. 
We have a very obliging gardener at Little Phantasy, who 
doesn’t much mind what we do. But of course it is dif¬ 
ferent here: you will need a crowd.” 

Sir Andrew grunted in evident bitterness of spirit, 
crowd! That’s just what we have. Can’t get mov¬ 
ing for servants, and gardeners, and visitors.” 

^^Oh,” said Kirsty, feeling vaguely guilty. . . . ^^Have 
you been long at Edmonston Hall ?” 

About five years. Eive years I’ve done nothing but 
eat my meals and take off my clothes and put them on 
again! Before that we had a villa outside Glasgow, and 
I went to the ofiice every day of my life except Saturdays 
and a week at the Fair. We had a house down the Clyde 
too. . . . But Maggie—my wife, you know—likes this.” 

Kirsty felt strongly tempted to ask the little man why 
he didn’t go back to the business life he loved; but, re¬ 
flecting that it was no part of a guest’s duty to sow seeds 
of insurrection in a host’s mind, she was silent. 

After luncheon she found herself on a large sofa be¬ 
tween her hostess and Mrs. M’Candlish. 

Lady Carruthers was full of some psychic experience 
she had had, which she related at length. 

^^Kow, what do you think of that?” she asked, when 
she had finished. 

Mrs. M’Candlish was drawing on her white kid gloves 
and pulling down her upper lip. ^^Well, Lady Car¬ 
ruthers,” she said, ^^you will forgive my saying that I 


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hardly think we should pry into such matters. God will 
reveal them in His good time.’^ 

^^Ye-es,” her hostess said, somewhat damped, ^^but it 
is such a help, don’t you think ? To be made to feel that 
the veil between is so thin—so thin,” her voice died away 
in a murmur. 

^Take the howling of a dog in the night,” Mrs. M’Cand- 
lish continued. “It seems to me so silly to connect such 
a thing with evil tidings. Why should the Maker of all 
things tell a dog? Such a senseless roundabout way of 
doing things! Mr. M’Candlish preached such a fine ser¬ 
mon only last Sunday—I don’t think you were present. 
Lady Carruthers—on foolish superstitions and the harm 
they do; and he touched on spiritualists, and Saul, you 
know, and the Witch of Endor. He said to me after¬ 
wards that it was borne in on him the need of such a 
sermon at this time.” 

“Even in Muirburn?” Kirsty asked, but Lady Car¬ 
ruthers broke in. 

“Dear Mrs. M’Candlish, I must give you a little book 
to read that has been such a help to me. It’s by 
Bishop- I’ve forgotten the name, but it is so help¬ 

ful. It seems to put one right about so many things, you 
know what I mean. Makes one see things in their proper 
perspective—so necessary, is it not?” Then turning to 
Kirsty—'You and I have had no talk. Miss Gilmour. I 
want to see so much of you, but life is so full. I’ll tell 
you what, some day we shall meet, and take our lunch 
with us, and walk over the hills, and talk and talk. I do 
so love hearing each person’s point of view, and I’m sure 
yours will be interesting. How tell me, are you more 
interested in people or things? That is so important to 
me before I make a real friend of any one-” 

She turned away without waiting for an answer, and 
Merren Strang, at Kirsty’s elbow, said, “Mrs. Elliot wants 




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to meet you,” and took her up to the lady with the dark 
eyes, who smiled at her and said, hear you have come 
to Little Phantasy. We have just got back to Laverlaw 
after an exile of several months, and I hope very soon so 
call on you. Merren has been telling me all al^ut you, 
and I long to see the house and the children.” 

^^Oh,” said Kirsty, ^Vhen will you come? I mean— 
could you fix a day, for I would so hate to miss you. 
Any day. It hardly matters to us, we haven’t many en¬ 
gagements.” 

Mrs. Elliot considered. ^^May I come on Thursday? 
And may I bring my husband ? He will want to see his 
friend, Archie Home, and perhaps you’ll let me stay and 
talk to you.” 

^^Oh, lovely. I shall look forward to that. . . . Could 
you spare time to lunch with us? Eorgive me if I’m 
being a nuisance, for I expect you’ve heaps of engage¬ 
ments.” 

Mrs. Elliot laughed. ‘‘Hot a bit of it! Heither Lewis 
nor I care much about going out, but we would like to 
go to you. It’s delightful of you to want us. That’s 
settled then. Luncheon on Thursday. How I must col¬ 
lect Lewis and go. This has been nice.” 

When Kirsty was leaving Mrs. Strang offered to give 
her a lift. “I know you’re going to tea at Cherrytrees. 
So am I, so we may as well go together.” 

“Why, it’s quite cold now,” Kirsty said, as they tucked 
themselves into the little car. “The wind has gone into 
the north.” 

“Our treacherous northern summer,” said Mrs. Strang. 
“Here, put that round you. You aren’t clothed for 
motoring. . . , How, we are too early for tea, and it’s 
hardly worth while going home. What do you say to a 
run up Tweed? It’s only three o’clock now. We could 
go to Linkumdoddy and back in an hour.” 


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‘^Lovely,” said Kirsty, cuddling into the wide warm 
scarf that had been handed to her, “and you will tell me 
about things as we go along. 

“What sort of things?” Mrs. Strang asked, as they 
slipped down the drive and through the “gilt-edged securi¬ 
ties” on to the open road. 

“First of all about the people who were at luncheon 
to-day—that delightful couple?” 

“You don’t mean the M’Candlishes ? Perhaps they 
aren’t a delightful couple exactly, but they are a very 
worthy couple. I like them both. ]Norman M’Candlish 
is a decent soul, and his wife can talk on the weather for 
haK an hour on end. Of course you mean the Elliots. 
Hadn’t you seen them before? But they have been 
away. Isn’t she a graceful creature ? She always makes 
me think of a greyhound, the lovely swift way she moves. 
I can sit happily for hours simply watching the way she 
turns her head, and her hands doing embroidery. They 
live at Laverlaw, a place about five miles on the other 
side of Priorsford. Pamela asked me to take you there. 
You will love it—a green glen shut away among the hills, 
and an old white-washed house. I’ve known Lewis Elliot 
all my days. We all thought he had settled down to 
bachelorhood, when he surprised us all by marrying 
Pamela Reston. It was an old romance, they should 
have married twenty years ago. I can’t imagine two 
more utterly contented people. When I get down in 
spirits and feel that all’s wrong with the world, I go over 
to Laverlaw and take a look at the Elliots.” 

“How jolly!” Kirsty said wistfully. “They must be 
very fond of each other. I liked the way they looked at 
each other now and again across the room, when they 
thought no one was looking, as if they were signalling, 
'Cheer up! We’ll soon be through with this and get 
away together.’ Marriage must be rather wonderful 


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191 


'when two people really care. Most people just seem to 
jog along more or less tolerating one another.” 

As they talked they were swinging round the many 
curves of the road that ran by Tweed. The wind was 
driving big white clouds across the sky, making shadows 
on the bare hillsides. Tweed was no longer the silver rib¬ 
bon it had been at noon, it was a grey and ruffled water. 
Kirsty shivered a little, and was glad when they turned 
to go back down the valley, towards tea and the comfort 
of Cherrytrees. 

When they arrived the Little Phantasy pony-trap had 
just driven up, and Kirsty was relieved to see that the 
children had their coats. 

Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Hay were both on the doorstep 
to welcome them, and led them through the friendly en¬ 
trance-hall, shabby as to furniture, but gay with flowers, 
into the drawing-room, which was papered, mid-Yictorian 
wise, in white and gold. A big round table stood in the 
middle of the room covered with a gleaming white cloth. 
A frosted silver epergne occupied the centre, and held 
scarlet geraniums and mignonette. Every conceivable 
good thing in the way of scones and pancakes, buns and 
shortbread, brandy-scrolls and meringues, was set among 
ruffled d’oyleys on white and gold plates. A fire had 
been lit, and blazed and crackled in a wide steel grate 
with green and white tiles. 

The children stood open-mouthed before the loaded 
table, and Merren Strang cried: 

thought a Cherrytrees tea would be a revelation to 
you. It was to me as a child.” 

^^Ah, Merren,” Mr. Hay said, ^^Cherrytrees has known 
you for a long time. You used to come when your head 
wasn’t as high as the table. Funny little elf you were!” 

^^All my life,” Merren Strang said, “I’ve thought of 
Cherrytrees as the most home-like place in the world, a 


PINK SUGAR 


m 

place to think of for comfort when one is far awaj. It^s 
about the only place that you get a really decent cup of 
tea. Don’t you agree, Kirsty? I’m so sick of the half 
cups of tepid tea I get slopped out to me by careless mod¬ 
ern hostesses. Mrs. Hay, you’re a lesson to us all in how 
to pour out tea.” 

“Nonsense, Merren,” Mrs. Hay laughed. “Anybody 
can pour out tea surely; there is no art in it.” She was 
warming each cup with a little hot water which she 
poured back into the slop-basin before she filled the cups 
with tea. The tea-pot stood on a little Dutch stand four¬ 
square, with transparent porcelain sides-through which 
glowed the light of a fioating wick; it kept the tea hot 
without letting it boil. Mrs. Hay had a white lace scarf 
over her white hair. Her rosy face wore an absorbed 
expression as she filled each cup carefully with fragrant 
tea, while a maid, standing beside her with a salver, car¬ 
ried them round one at a time. 

Nothing so delighted the Anthony Hays as to entertain 
young people. Having no children of their own, they 
adopted the children of the neighbourhood. Neither of 
these old people found the slightest difficulty in talking 
to and interesting children. Mr. Hay was already deep 
in conversation with Specky about fishing; Barbara was 
telling Mrs. Hay all about their latest pranks, and the 
two were beaming at each other in high good-humour. 

In the middle of tea Mrs. Strang jumped up and went 
to a small side table on which stood a rosewood box. 

“Please, may I ffiave my treat ?” she asked, and set go¬ 
ing a musical box. 

“It’s been my special treat since I was Bill’s age,” she 
explained. “It’s as much Cherrytrees as the green-and- 
white fireplace, or the silver epergne, or the geraniums 
and the mignonette, or Mrs. Hay’s white lace cap. I 


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193 


can’t really enjoy my tea unless it is accompanied by 
Oft in the Stilly Night or The Last Rose of Summer/* 

So while they ate, the sweet tinkle-tinkle went on, 
making Kirsty think of polite ladies sitting in pot-pourri- 
scented parlours, with tatting in their hands and photo¬ 
graphic albums beside them; dim dainty creatures long 
since faded out of the world. 

After tea there was a wealth of things to amuse the 
children—a parrot in the hall that delighted Bill by 
dancing up and down, singing— 

‘^Sing hee! the merry masons, 

Sing ho! the merry masons”; 

a puppy and a kitten, and outside in the stables other 
wonders. They were dragged away reluctantly, and only 
the packets of butter-scotch bestowed on them by 
Mrs. Hay kept Bill from making a scene, so enamoured 
was he of Cherrytrees and its owners. 

‘There is no doubt,” Mrs. Strang said to Kirsty, as she 
drove her to the turn of the road, “that there was some¬ 
thing about the Victorians that is lost to us. It is only 
among the older women that you find that delightful wel¬ 
coming way that Mrs. Hay has. There is a coldness and 
casualness about our modern hospitality. We won’t take 
trouble, and we won’t ‘put ourselves about.’ When the 
Hays have visitors (as they nearly always have) they make 
a fuss about them. Everything in the house seems to 
shout a welcome, and they themselves give of their best 
to their friends, not only in the way of food and that 
sort of thing, but time and thought and effort. I must say 
I do like to be made a fuss of. When I go to stay in a 
house where I am received by servants and told that the 
mistress will be back for dinner, and when I have re¬ 
ceived a casual good-bye from a lady torn from a bridge 


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table to say it, I stake the dust of that house from my 
feet and never go back.’^ 

know that sort of people,” Kirsty said feelingly. 
^They think it smart to behave like that. Guests come 
and go, and are neither welcomed when they come nor 
missed when they go. Probably they and their hostess 
know practically nothing of each other. The Hays, I 
expect, only ask friends.” 

Hrs. Strang slowed down to avoid a young 
collie disporting himself on the road. ^^Ho you know, 
when the Hays go away for a little their chauffeur has 
orders to take certain people for drives every day, people 
to whom a motor-run is a luxury and a treat. Pruit and 
flowers and vegetables—everything that they have is 
shared.” 

^^Tt^s nice that there are people like that in the world,” 
Hirsty said slowly. ^^Host of us are so busy living our 
own lives, trying to get the very best out of life for our¬ 
selves, we haven’t time to be kind.” 

^ Pive one’s own life,” Mrs. Strang cried impatiently. 
'T’m sick of that phrase. It simply means crass selfish¬ 
ness. A girl goes off to live in her own flat and study art 
or something of the kind, leaving a delicate mother to 
wrestle as best she can with a big house and servants and 
entertaining, and people say, ^Oh, but she must live her 
own life.’ If the girl is happy she doesn’t deserve to be.” 

‘^But surely,” said Kirsty, '^surely you don’t think it 
was right the way Victorian parents so often victimised a 
daughter, sometimes making her give up all prospects of 
a house of her own and a husband to hang round and 
nurse them.” 

“I think it was very wrong of the parents, but I think 
that too much pity is wasted, and scorn poured, by mod- 
erns on the meek daughter who allowed herself to be 
treated so. I’m hopelessly old-fashioned I know, but I 


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195 


do think there is a tremendous satisfaction in doing what 
you feel to be your duty, and a great deal of happiness got 
that way. . . . Well, here we part. Good-night, Kirsty 
dear. Better keep the scarf, the wind is cold. I’ll get 
it sometime. . . . My love to Miss Fanny.” 

As she went to bed that night Kirsty remembered Alan 
Crawford’s letter. She took it from her letter-case and 
read it again. A charming letter. She remembered the 
writer with his handsome face and easy, friendly ways. 
Charming, too. No hardship surely about marrying such 
a man. As she brushed her hair before her looking-glass, 
watching the candle flicker and wave in the air from the 
open window, she nodded at herself in the glass, promis¬ 
ing herself, ‘‘I could always encourage him to go away 
a lot. ...” And as she said it she remembered the couple 
whom she had so admired at Edmonston that day, re¬ 
membered the glances she had intercepted between them, 
the little signalling glances of good comradeship, and 
more, of deep satisfied love, and she sighed. This dark 
lady would not want to encourage her Lewis to go 
away. . . • 


Chapter XVII 

“It’s rainin’. Weet’s the gairden sod, 

Weet the lang roads whaur gangrels plod.” 

B. L. 8. 

A POTJRIJSTG wet day, and the Sabbath. 

They had all been at church—even Bill. That 
abandoned character was at his best in the house of God, 
urbane, gentle, reverent. He liked going to church, and 
removed his hat in the porch with a solemn gesture. The 
mere sight of a church enveloped Barbara and Specky 
in a thick fog of depression, and they sat through the 
service with blank faces, sunk in profound gloom. Hot so 
Bill. He briskly looked up (or pretended to look up) 
the psalms and hymns, and certainly sang something very 
loudly and out of tune. He bowed his head at prayers, 
and sat all through the sermon staring very hard at the 
minister, with an absorbed face. 

This Sunday there was a strange preacher, very long 
and dreich, and at the end Bill said quite audibly with a 
sigh, ^^Oh, what a long preach! I thought he was going 
on till Monday.” 

Miss Carter was in bed with a bad headache, and after 
early dinner, the special Sunday dinner with the chil¬ 
dren’s favourite pudding and an extra allowance of 
sweeties afterwards, Kirsty wondered how the long wet 
day was to be put in. Miss Panny, too, foresaw difficul¬ 
ties, and determined if the children were to be about 
that she would spend the afternoon in her own room. 
However, there was no need for such extreme measures, 
for the moment they had been given their toffee the chil- 
196 


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197 


dren slipped quietly away, murmuring something about 
playing a Bible game since they couldn’t go out. 

Kirsty followed her aunt to the drawing-room where a 
bright fire was burning, to which Miss Fanny was drawn 
as a bee is drawn to a flower-bell. 

Kirsty went to the window, and stood looking out at 
the drenched grey world. 

^^How rain changes things!” she said. ^^Yesterday it 
was high summer. To-day with the whirling leaves and 
the battered flowers it is autumn.” 

Miss Fanny had settled in her own big chair, and was 
reading the Old Testament, as she always did on Sunday 
afternoons. She shook her head mournfully at Kirsty’s 
remark. ‘‘Yes, the summer is nearly over. It is such a 
sad time, the fall of the leaf, I always think.” 

“Oh, would you call it sad? Bather a jolly time, I 
think, with the days drawing in and winds whistling, and 
big fires blazing, and the harvest safely in, and the byres 
full of feeding cattle.” 

Miss Fanny sighed again. “You are young, Kirsty; 
you don’t see the sadness in things as I do. . . . The 
swallows preparing to go away, and having a desire to 
depart; the dying flowers—it makes me think of one’s 
own going. . . . What an excellent sermon that was this 
morning. When you went back for Bill’s hat, I walked 
along with that Mrs. Dickson of the shop—a nice, sad 
woman, she tells me she takes salts every morning—and 
she said she did not know when she had enjoyed a ser¬ 
mon so much. The very text Flee from the wrath to come 
was so refreshing. Ministers nowadays are so taken up 
with love and forgiveness that they seldom mention the 
wrath of God. It’s a pity.” 

“Yes,” Kirsty agreed. “It’s the reaction from Calvin¬ 
ism; they’ve gone to the other extreme. Doesn’t Bill 
behave well in church ?” 


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Miss Fanny folded her long upper lip over her lower 
one, but said nothing, and Kirsty continued: 

^^He never moved through that long sermon, though 
what he made of it I don’t know. Perhaps you will live 
to see Bill a minister yet. Aunt Fanny!” 

Miss Fanny gazed at her niece very solemnly and said: 

^^Kirsty, he came into my room yesterday, and I didn’t 
notice what he was doing till I found he had taken a jar 
of cold cream and mixed it with bay-rum in the soap-dish, 
and stirred it round with my thermometer. He said he 
was playing at a chemist’s shop. I told him how wicked 
it was to waste things, and to meddle with other people’s 
property—indeed, I took the opportunity to speak very 
seriously to him about several things, and he listened quite 
attentively. Indeed, as I talked his face looked quite 
softened, it lost that arrogant look which I so much object 
to, and I kissed him, and he went out of the room peni¬ 
tent, I thought, until I found that he had taken the key 
out of my door and locJced me in! There is no saying 
when I would have got out had it not happened to be 
near lunch-time, and Miss Wotherspoon, coming with 
my hot water, let me out. She was quite upset about it, 
and so was I. It was so brazen, just after I had spoken 
to him so seriously.” 

Kirsty said, ^^What a villain!” and tried to look pro¬ 
perly shocked (though she was irresistibly reminded of 
Jonah sitting before Nineveh saying, do well to be 
angry”), and Miss Fanny continued: 

didn’t mean to tell you, for I don’t like tale-bearing, 
but when you spoke of that bad child becoming a minis¬ 
ter!—I just thought when he was sitting so quiet in 
church he was probably meditating evil. There is a verse 
in this chapter I am reading in Second Chronicles that 
reminds me of him— JehoiacJiin was eight years old when 
he began to reign, and he reigned three months and ten 


PINK SUGAR 199 

days in Jerusalem: and he did that which was evil in the 
sight of the Lord/* 

Kirsty gave a cry of protest, and went to look over her 
aunt’s shoulder at the verse in question. 

‘^Eight years old and reigning in Jerusalem! Who 
said he did evil? Not the Lord, I’m sure: the stupid 
high priests probably. I wonder what he did, the lamb? 
Ate the shewhread or cut his name on the Ark of the 
Covenant perhaps! . . . D’you see how it goes on ? And 
when the year was expired. King Nebuchadnezzar sent 
and brought him to Babylon. That was better. Jeru¬ 
salem was no place for a bad little king, but can’t you see 
him ruffling it in Babylon?” 

^^Kirsty, my dear, I sometimes think you are inclined 
to be flippant. I don’t like the light way you speak of 
sacred things. At eight years of age this boy was quite 
old enough to know better. I expect he was just such 
another as Bill—impenitent.” And Miss Fanny returned 
to the study of the Old Testament, while Kirsty took up 
a book. 

Presently Miss Fanny fell asleep, her hands folded on 
the open Bible, a picture of Sabbatarian repose. 

Kirsty’s book was not very entertaining, and in a little 
she laid it down and looked out of the window. The rain 
was still falling steadily. She wondered what the chil¬ 
dren were doing that was keeping them so quiet. Perhaps 
Carty would like her tea early. She slipped out of the 
room. 

There was no one in the schoolroom. She went on to 
Miss Carter’s room, and found that lady so far recovered 
that she had got up and proposed to go downstairs for 
tea. Kirsty tried to persuade her to remain quietly in 
her room with a book all day, but she was adamant. 

^^WTere are the children ?” she asked. 

^Tost,” said Kirsty. ^^After luncheon they went away 


200 


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to the schoolroom (as I thought) to play Bible games, but 
IVe just been to look, and there’s no trace of them. 
They can’t be out of the house, and I don’t hear them in 
the kitchen, so I’m going to try the attic.” 

^Then,” said Miss Carter, pulling on a woolly coat, ^^as 
Cocky Locky said to Henny Penny when he heard that 
she was going to tell the King the sky was falling, T 
shall go with you.’ ” 

The attic was a large room running the whole length of 
the house, and was reached from the long passage by a 
wooden stair with a door at the foot. When the searchers 
opened the door they knew they had run their quarry to 
earth. Whispers, giggles, soft thuds, subdued bumpings 
came down the stair to them—evidently it was quite a 
Sunday game. 

As they reached the head of the stairs they were con¬ 
fronted by a strange sight. The attic as a rule contained 
nothing but a few old chairs and unwanted pictures and 
ornaments. These had been stacked in a corner, and the 
middle of the floor was covered with flowering plants 
and palms and ferns, all the bushiest things that could 
be found in the greenhouse. Some one had worked 
hard. 

Behind the largest palm skulked two figures which 
Kirsty and Miss Carter, staring with amazed eyes, recog¬ 
nised as Barbara and Specky. They were lightly clad in 
under-vests and had aprons of ivy leaves with ties of red 
braid fastened on with black safety-pins. Specky was 
devouring a banana. 

^What in the world-” Kirsty began, when Barbara 

flew to her. 

^^Darling Pie, it’s the Garden of Eden. We’re Adam 
and Eve. We ought really to have nothing on but fig- 
leaves, like the picture in Aunt Fanny’s big Bible, but 
they had both long hair, and Specky hasn’t, and so we 



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201 


kept on onr nnder-things. And we couldn^t find any 
fig-leaves—and anyway ivy-leaves are the easiest to sew. 
. . . IVe jnst got Adam to eat the Forbidden Fruit.” 

^‘But that’s not an apple,” said Miss Carter. 

^^N’o,” Barbara admitted, ^^but you see Specky said he 
wouldn’t be tempted except with a banana—he doesn’t 
like apples unless they’re stewed. Bill-” 

^^Yes. Where is Bill?” Kirsty demanded. 

Barbara pointed, and there in the ^^garden,” among the 
flowering plants, on a high chair from which his legs 
stuck out stiffly, sat Bill. True Elizabethan that he was, 
he scorned to ^^dress up.” He wore the pale-blue jersey 
and the brief blue trousers that he had worn at church, 
but on his gilt head was laid a wreath of tropeolum. His 
sea-blue eyes were sternly fixed on vacancy; his lower 
jaw was thrust out, making him look extraordinarily like 
Lord Carson or a bloodhound; he was heavily scented. 

^^What is he?” Miss Carter asked. 

Barbara gave a frightened giggle. ‘We didn’t want 
him to be it. Indeed we didn’t. We told him we would 
just pretend something was moving in the bushes, and 
pretend we heard a voice—^but he would do it. First he 
was the Serpent, and went on his stomach (look at his 
new jersey), and now he’s—he is-” 

“He’s God,” said Specky, swallowing the last bite of 
his banana. 

There was a silence, for no one knew what to say next. 

Kirsty, shaken by internal laughter, felt thankful that 
Miss Fanny was safely asleep in the drawing-room. 
“Evil in the sight of the Lord” indeed! 

Miss Carter took the matter in hand. 

“Well,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice, “it’s nearly 
tea-time, so get properly dressed at once, Barbara and 
Specky, and remember another time that you are not to 
undress in the day-time. And when you are dressed. 




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carry all these plants carefully back to their places. Bill, 
come with me and learn a hymn.” 

Bill turned on his governess a cold glance, but seeing 
that she was evidently not in a mood to be trifled with, 
he took her hand and trotted meekly away. 

At tea Miss Fanny asked Barbara innocently, ^^Had 
you a nice quiet Bible game, dear?” 

^^Yes, thank you, Aunt Fanny,” Barbara said demurely, 
and Kir sty quickly changed the subject. 

After tea the children lounged about the drawing-room 
for a little, taking out books, glancing through them, and 
leaving them about in a way that greatly annoyed Miss 
Fanny, but in a short time they slipped unobtrusively 
away to their favourite refuge, the kitchen. 

Easie and Kellie were their boon companions, and 
Miss Wotherspoon with her stem ways and long face had 
a strange attraction for them. 

It was Kellie’s day out, but Easie was sitting by the 
fire, and Miss Wother spoon sat in the window, with her 
spectacles on, reading the Missionary Record. 

The Little Phantasy servants had a very comfortable 
sitting-room with a couch and wicker chairs filled with 
bright cushions, and a piano, but they seldom used it 
except when they had a visitor. It is true that Miss 
Wotherspoon liked to sit there in state of an afternoon 
and write letters, but for real cosiness there was no place 
like the kitchen, especially on a Sunday afternoon when 
Easie laid down a cherished rug and brought some chairs 
from the sitting-room. 

'Weel, here ye are,” Easie greeted their entrance. 
^^Are ye wearit, puir bairns? 'Straight lines are tire¬ 
some like lang Sabbath days.’ ” 

Specky sat down on the floor beside Easie and the fire, 
with a bit of wood in his hand to whittle into a boat. 

"Were you ever in England, Mrs. Orphoot ?” he asked. 


PINK SUGAR 


203 


Tlie question seemed to amuse Easie. ^^N'o me,” she 
said, ^^it’s a place I never set fit in.” 

Speckj studied his hit of wood with his head on one 
side. ^^Well, I don^t think youVe missed much,” he 
assured her. 

Easie laughed again, then yawned frankly. 

‘^Eh, hey hech um! an auld wife an’ a strae hrechum. 
I dinna like a wat Sahhath. See how dark it is, an’ it no 
near six yet!” 

Barbara was dancing Bill about in the middle of the 
floor trying to work off her high spirits, and she now made 
a playful dash at Miss Wotherspoon, caught her round 
the neck and kissed her. 

‘^Tuts, give over, lassie.” Miss Wotherspoon shook 
herself free like a nervous horse. Ye’re that violent. 
Ye should try to he more ladylike, such a great girl as 
ye are.” 

Barbara was unabashed, and wanted to know what Miss 
Wotherspoon was reading, and if there were any pictures. 

Plenty pictures, she was told, hut not the kind she 
would like. 

^^But how d’you know I wouldn’t like them ?” Barbara 
asked. ^^Show me one.” But on being shown a group 
of dark gentlemen in European costume posing "before the 
camera her interest was quickly quenched. 

Bill went and seated himself firmly in Easie’s capacious 
lap. He put up one hand and touched her very gently 
under the chin (a favourite action of his if he wanted to 
coax some one), and said, ‘‘Mrs. Orphoot, tell us a story.” 

“Me! I dinna ken nae Sahhath stories.” 

“All the better,” said Bill. “Tell The Bed Etain of 
Ireland/* 

“Ye’ve heard it a hunner times.” 

“We don’t mind,” Specky said handsomely, whittling 
away hard at his boat. 


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They gathered round Easie prepared for a treat, for 
Easie had a great sense of drama, and could drop her voice 
thrillingly when she was the beggar wife begging the 
Xing’s son for a bit of his bannock and offering him her 
benison, and on being refused, bestowing on him her 
malison—but to-day there was to be no Ked Etain, Easie’s 
conscience would not allow it. 

^Tt’s no the thing,” she said, ^^to tell leess on the Lord’s 
Day. I’ll tell you aboot the Prodigal Son.” 

^^Must you ?” Specky sighed. don’t like him much.” 

^^Or about the pigs rinnin’ doon the hill into the sea.” 

This promised better. ‘^Bible pigs?” Bill asked. 

^^Ay. Ye mind when Christ was on earth and walkit 
aboot makin’ sick folk weel He cast devils oot o’ folk. 
An’ the devils didna ken whaur to gang when they werena 
allowed to torment folk ony langer, an’ there was a herd 
o’ swine feedin’ quite quiet there on the hillside (juist 
like sheep would feed here in Muirburn), an’ they gaed 
into the swine, an’ the puir beasts ran doon the steep hill 
into the sea, and were never mair heard tell o’.” 

^Tt was hard on the swine,” said Specky. 

“Ay. I think that masel’, but better swine than folk, 
if somebody’s got to be drooned.” 

“Were the devils drowned ?” Bill asked. 

Easie stared at him. “Eh, d’ye ken, I never thocht o’ 
that. I doot if ye can droon devils, that’s to say if they’re 
ony thing like witches, but I dinna ken.” 

“Do you know any more Bible stories ?” Barbara asked. 

“Plenty, but they feenish awfu’ quick. Ye’ve hardly 
begun when ye’re done. Miss. Wotherspoon’ll read us 
something oot o’ the paper, mebbe.” 

Miss Wotherspoon did not seem to hear, and went on 
reading. 

“Sing to us, please,” Bill said. “Sing Kiity Bairdie/' 

There was nothing the children enjoyed more than to 


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get Easie to sing her store of old songs and rhymes to 
them. She could tell how 

^‘Kitty Bairdie hed a coo 
A’ black aboot the moo, 

Wasna’ that a denty coo? 

Dance, Kitty Bairdie.” 

And not only had Kitty Bairdie a ^^coo,” but she had a 
^%rice that could skate upon the ice/’ also a ‘^hen that 
could toddle but and ben.” And about ^^the wee bit 
mousikie that lived in Gilberatie-o, and couldna get a bit 
o’ cheese for cheetie-pussie-cattie-o.” And the ballad of 
Willie Wvdj whose clothes were surely the strangest ever 
seen, for ‘^his buttons they were made o’ the bawbee baps,” 
and ^^his coat it was made o’ the guid roast beef,” and 
“his breeks they were made o’ the haggis-bags.” 

“Sing,” Bill commanded. 

Easie cast a glance at her fellow-servant, who seemed 
deep in the Record. “I canna sing thae sangs the day,” 
she whispered. “Wait till the morn.” 

“I shan’t want them ^the morn,’ ” Bill pointed out. 

Easie hesitated, and then began to sing softly in her 
sweet high voice the song that seemed to her most Sab¬ 
bath-like : 

^‘Alla-balla-balla-balla-be, 

Sittin’ on his Mammy’s knee. 

Greetin’ for anither bawbee 
To buy Colthart’s candy. 

Little Annie greetin’ tae. 

What can patient Mammy dae. 

But halve a penny atween the twae 
To buy Colthart’s candy?” 

At the conclusion of the song Miss Wotherspoon rose 
in her wrath. “WEat ongoings on the Sabbath day! 


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Are ye not ashamed, Easie Orphoot? Put that laddie 
on his feet, and we’ll all sing a hymn, one we all know. 
The OU, Old Story/^ 

There was something strangely compelling in Miss 
Wotherspoon’s personality. In a trice she had each one 
supplied with a hymn-book and sitting demurely on chairs 
round the fire. A little later when Kirsty softly opened 
the kitchen door, she found a devout little gathering. 
Miss Wotherspoon was singing loud and clear, her eyes 
shut, her head wagging in time with the tune. The light 
from the fire lay rosy on Bill’s gilt head and serious face 
as he sang with unction : 

^^Tell me the old, old story 
If you have cause to fear 
That this world’s empty glory 
Is costing me too dear. . . .” 

As Eirsty slipped away unnoticed she remembered with 
a smile the bad little king who had ^^done evil” in Jeru¬ 
salem. Had there been no Eastern equivalent to Miss 
Wotherspoon for Jehoiachin ? 


Chapter XVIII 

“Whaur sail I enter the Promised Land, 

Ower the Sutra or doun the Lyne, 

Or stancher in’ on hy Crawfordjohn 
Yont to the glens whaur Tweed rins wee? 

It’s maitter sma’ whaur your road may fa* 

Git it land ye safe in the South Countrie.” 

J. B. 

I T was with very distinct annoyance that Kirsty found, 
in the middle of September, that she must go to Lon¬ 
don to see her lawyer. 

‘Tt means almost a whole week away from Little Phan¬ 
tasy,” she complained. ^^Mr. Haynes says five days, but 
you know what the law’s delays are.” 

Miss Carter sought to console her with talk of the 
plays she would see, the shops, the people, but Kirsty 
would have none of such consolation. 

^Tt’s no fun going to plays alone,” she said, ^^and I 
don’t believe any one I know is in London just now. 
There are the shops, of course, but one day will finish 
my shopping.—I do need some new clothes badly, though. 
All my white woollen skirts have washed in, and my white 
silk jumpers have washed out, so they’ll all have to go to 
a Jumble Sale. There will be Wednesday, Thursday, 
Friday to get through; for I don’t suppose Mr. Haynes 
will want me for more than an hour at a time. It is hor¬ 
ribly tiresome of him to want me at all. Tell me, Carty, 
would you like to leave Little Phantasy just now, in this 
glorious weather, and go to town ? I thought not. Well, 

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anyway, I’ll be back on Saturday at the latest. I leave 
everything in your charge. Be good to Aunt Fanny and 
keep Bill away from her, and don’t grudge the children 
an extra sweetie at a time: you are just a little inclined 
to be parsimonious with the sweets. And soothe Miss 
Wotherspoon if she is fractious, and if you can find time, 
go up to the Castle and see NTannie Tait. I shall write to 
her from London and send her something. . . . That’s 
all, I think. . . . Oh, and don’t let them set the house on 
fire.” 

When in London Kirsty and her stepmother had always 
stayed in a private hotel in Albemarle Street, and Kirsty 
went there now. The first night she found herself woe¬ 
fully homesick. Her bedroom was as fresh and com¬ 
fortable as it is possible for a town bedroom to be, but 
the smuts fell thickly through the open window, the air 
felt thrice breathed, the constant passing and repassing 
of traffic made her head ache, the houses on the opposite 
side of the street seemed to be trying to crush her. She 
tossed about and thought of the blue and white room at 
home, with its wide windows letting in the hill air, the 
garden so gay with autumn flowers, the woods of Phan¬ 
tasy, still green but touched here and there with flame, 
the sound of running water which put her to sleep at 
night and welcomed her waking in the morning. At a 
distance she saw it all from a fresh angle, and realised 
as she had never done how much it meant to her. 

One night she dined with some friends who happened 
to be in London, and they told her that they had never 
seen her look so well. 

^^Because,” said Kirsty, ‘^you never saw me perfectly 
contented before.” 

^^Contented!” they cried. ^^Buried in the country, 
worried by children, plagued by an elderly aunt! What 
possible pleasure could any one find in such a life?” 


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Kirsty merely smiled and talked of something else. 
It was no good trying by word of mouth to convey the 
charm of Phantasy, of the Hope Water with its green 
pastures, or the great hills, or Aunt Fanny with her good¬ 
ness and inconsequence, or the children. 

Five nights and four whole days she spent in London. 

The days were easy to get through, with visits to the 
lawyer and much shopping. She had presents to buy for 
every one, which was something new and delightful, and 
she expended much thought in getting suitable things. 
A new biography for Miss Fanny’s more serious moments, 
and a pretty domestic tale for her lighter ones; also a 
wrap, decorative yet warm, for the fireside. Barbara and 
Bill were easy to choose for, Carty also. Easie Orphoot 
and Miss Wotherspoon were to have hand-bags, and NTellie 
a brooch. Specky must have something for his favourite 
sport, and a shop in Bond Street bristling with weapons 
for the chase lured her inside, where she bought some 
wonderful blue and silver minnows sticking full of hooks, 
on the advice of a bored young man. 

^^Of course, madam,” he said, ‘fit depends entirely 
where you are going to fish.” 

“I’m not going to fish at all, but is any self-respecting 
trout fool enough to eat that?” and Kirsty held up one 
of the minnows. 

“Certainly, madam,” said the young man coldly. 

“But not trout in a burn ?” Kirsty insisted. 

The young man looked as if he were being asked to 
descend lower than he considered seemly. With supreme 
indifference he said, “As to that, madam, of course I 
cannot say.” 

“Well, I’ll have six of the brightest and most terrible,” 
she said, and thought to herself, “Specky will love them, 
though I fear they’ll scare away every trout from the 
Hope Water. I wonder if he would appreciate a landing 


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net ? He might; it would look so very important, as 
Bill would say.’’ 

The evenings were rather difficult to get through. 

Twice she dined with people and went to the play, but 
three evenings she sat in the drawing-room with a book, 
not reading much, but taking stock of the occupants of 
the other armchairs. 

There were four women who did not seem to go out 
much in the evening. One had a girl in a nursing-home, 
and was simply getting through the time until she could 
take her away. She wrote letters unceasingly. 

Two were obviously sisters, and their flow of conver¬ 
sation never for one instant slackened. Kirsty thought 
that perhaps they had not seen each other for years, and 
were making up for lost time. When she sat trying to 
read, not wishing to listen, the talk flowed over her like 
a stream—a cook’s enormities, the impertinence of a 
housemaid, the extravagance of some one called ^^Molly,” 
who rushed everywhere and needed continual new frocks, 
yet would not settle down and marry a really excellent 
man with money; a husband’s dyspepsia, his rage at the 
household books; a son who was heedless but such a 
good boy really; the whole interspersed with discussions 
as to whether Harvey NTichol’s or Debenham’s was the 
best place for certain garments, and why their fowls 
didn’t lay when other people were getting dozens of eggs, 
and whether or not So-and-So was telling the truth when 
she said Alice’s husband drank. 

On the whole it was rather entertaining, and Kirsty 
took swift glances at the couple. One was stout and had 
a roving eye and a good-natured laugh, and seemed quite 
^^PPy spite of owning the extravagant daughter and 
the heedless son and the dyspeptic husband. The other 
was thin and yellowish, and was troubled by cooks who 
were wasteful and hens that wouldn’t lay. 


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The last of the four women interested Kirstj greatly. 
She sat apart, rather withdrawn, as if sufficient to herself, 
a handsome woman in middle-age, with the wholesome 
look of one who spends much time in the open air. Her 
firm, pretty hands worked at a piece of embroidery, and 
she had an air of well-being and content that was most 
comfortable to behold. 

Watching, Kirsty wove a story round her. 

She lived in Devonshire, she decided, this vvoman with 
the rose-brown face and quiet eyes, in some old manor- 
house standing in gardens that glowed with colour, and 
lawns that went down in terraces to the sea. She had 
a son at Oxford and two boys at school, and a daughter 
almost grown up. Serena, the girl’s name was, and her 
eyes were grey. There was a husband who adored her 
somewhere in the background, but Kirsty could not de¬ 
cide whether he was an ordinary country squire or some¬ 
thing rather distinguished, like a retired ambassador. 
Anyway, she was sure it was a very happy household. 
There were long summer days when they picnicked to¬ 
gether, drank tea in the sunshine, and bathed and climbed 
rocks; there were autumn days when they went black- 
berrying, there were winter days when great fires burned 
in the hall, and carols were sung and old tales told. She 
wondered if Serena and her brothers knew how lucky they 
were to have such a delightful sort of mother, who laughed 
and played with them, advised them, comforted and petted 
them. 

On the last night of Kirsty’s stay the woman who wrote 
letters and the two talkative sisters went early to bed, and 
she was left alone with the admired lady. She had never 
spoken to her except to pass the time of day, and she was 
surprised when the lady looked up from her work, and 
catching Kirsty’s eye raised from her book, said, ^^Are 
we late? Or have the others gone early?” 


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isn’t late,” Xirsty assured her, “not ten o’clock 

yet.” 

The lady laid down her work. “I suppose I ought to 
go to bed too. I go home to-morrow, and start early.” 

“Why! So do I,” said Kirsty. “How odd!” 

The lady laughed. “Odd?” she said. “Wouldn’t it 
be odder if we didn’t go home, but sat about indefinitely 
in hotel drawing-rooms?” 

“It would,” Kirsty agreed, “and how infinitely horrible! 
I only meant it was odd that we should both be going 
home to-morrow. I hope you haven’t noticed that I’ve 
been looking at you a great deal. You were so interested 
in your work that you hardly looked up, so I thought I 
might. These evenings have been rather wearisome, and 
watching you has been the only pleasant bit. . . . Per¬ 
haps it was impertinent of me, but I’ve been picturing 
to myself the sort of home you have.” 

“But this is interesting.” The lady took up her em¬ 
broidery and put in a few stitches. “Tell me, what kind 
of home did you give me ?” 

Kirsty sat forward with her hands clasped round her 
knees. 

“In Devonshire. Was that by any chance right ?” 

“Quite right.” 

“Ko! How lovely. An old manor-house thick with 
roses.” 

“Too imposing. Say, rather, like the house-agents, a 
commodious cottage.” 

“Oh!” Kirsty’s face fell a little, then brightened 
again. “I’m not sure about your husband. He isn’t a 
Tory squire, is he ? I rather want him to be a man of 
affairs.” 

The lady dropped her work. “But must I have a hus¬ 
band ?” she asked. 

Kirsty stared. “What—do you mean?” 


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213 


The lady held out her left hand, remarking, ^^I’m 
afraid you would make a poor living as a detective.” 

Kirsty began to laugh. was so sure that I never 
troubled to look for the wedding-ring. Oh, but the cheery 
school-boy sons and the boy at Oxford, and the girl called 
Serena, and the beautiful full life I gave you! And you 
look so married, somehow.” 

The lady laid aside her work, laughing at Kirsty^s face. 

^^You are making me feel very remiss,” she said. ^^But 
can’t I have a beautiful full life without a husband 
and family?” 

Kirsty considered. ‘^You can, of course, in a way, but 
I’m so old-fashioned—I mean to say there is something 
more complete in the thought of a woman with a husband 
and children, don’t you think?” 

The lady surveyed her with an amused smile. 

daresay,” she said. Then, after a pause: ^T’m 
forty-eight, and I can honestly say I’ve never envied any 
woman her husband. I may not realise what I’m missing 
—^that I admit—but I could hardly be happier than I 
am.” 

‘T know you’re happy, that’s what attracted me so 
much and made me like to watch you. You looked so 
contented, as if you didn’t in the least mind a dull hotel 
drawing-room because you had heaps of nice things to 
think of. Most people have such a restless look—you 
looked, somehow, anchored.” 

^Tt sounds stolid,” the lady laughed, “but I think I 
know what you mean, and I’m glad I struck you like that. 
The fact is, I’m contented because I’m always busy; 
work is easily the best fun in the world.” 

“What do you do ? Is it rude of me to ask ?” 

“Do ? So many things that I can’t begin to tell you. 
Do you live in the country? Then you know how many 
things there are to occupy one’s time. I run my own 


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farm—that is quite a big job in itself—and I help all I 
can with things in the village. I have a friend who lives 
with me—Caroline Grenville, a man and a brother if 
ever there was one, and we work together. Our pet job 
is taking Anglo-Indian children for school holidays, chil¬ 
dren who have no relations in this country. That is 
the most repaying thing to do. It is so pleasant to write 
to far-away, anxious parents, and send them snapshots 
of their children, tell them of their pranks and their 
funny sayings, try to make pictures for them with words 
that they may ponder over until fresh news comes. Luck- 
ily IVe got enough money to let me do it for love, though 
I do take a nominal sum so that there may be no feeling 
of obligation on the parents’ part. We have had one 
family (one girl and two boys) for two years, and this 
summer we had in addition two little shy, frightened boys 

like mice they were, so small and quiet—aged seven 
and nine. They almost broke our hearts at first with 
their goodness and their little white faces, but they 
brisked up wonderfully, and got really naughty under the 
able tuition of Betsy and her brothers—real hadmashes 
they are! . . . IVe just been seeing them all back to 
school and settled down, and now I go home to Caroline, 
and we shall have a blissful time together until we wel¬ 
come back (very gladly) our family for Christmas time.” 

'The two little boys too, I hope ?” 

"Oh, of course.” 

Kirsty gave a sigh of satisfaction. 

"What fun you must have I Thank you for telling me. 
It’s much better than the life I gave you after all.” 

^ "Oh, I shouldn’t say that, but if women can live hap- 
pily alone and make a success of their lives, so much the 
better, don’t you think ? And that leaves more men for 
the women who can’t be happy without a husband of 
sorts.” 


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215 


Kirsty looked interested. “It^s quite true. I hadn’t 
thought of it like that, hut now, if I don’t marry, I shall 
pat myself approvingly and feel that I’ve helped some 
one else to a husband.” 

The lady laughed as she proceeded to put up her em¬ 
broidery. Then she stood up, and she was very straight 
and tall, taller by half a head than Kirsty. 

‘^You’ve heard about my life—^what about yours? 
Won’t you tell me ?” 

Kirsty shook her head. “There is nothing to tell— 
much. I’ve no relations to speak of, and I travelled about 
with my stepmother till a year ago, and then she died. 
Kow I am at home, in Scotland, and very happy. I’ve 
got a home for the first time, and this summer I have 
three children staying with me. Their mother is dead. 
... You can imagine how interested I was to hear of 
your Anglo-Indians . . .” and she launched into an ac¬ 
count of Barbara, Specky, and Bill. 

“And how long will you have them?” the lady asked, 
when a pause came. 

“Ah, that’s it. Their father will come home some day 
and want them. He’s somewhere about the South Seas 
now. I try not to think of that day. They are mine for 
the present, and after all you never know what will 
happen, do you ?” 

The tall lady looked at the eager face raised to hers; 
then she bent and kissed it. 

“I wonder if we’ll ever meet again,” she said. “I 
should like to hear what happens to you. . . . Anyway, I 
hope life holds much happiness for you. Whatever you 
do, don’t marry a man except for one reason. Kememher, 
there are great points about being single. Good-night 
and bless you.” 

The next evening, when the London express stopped 


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at the junction Kirsty sprang from it like a bird from a 
fowler’s snare. The snell hill air was an elixir to her; 
she gazed with rapture at Tinto’s purple slopes rising 
from the brown moorlands. The little train that ambled 
past Muirbum down to Priorsford was just coming in; 
a porter was chanting the names of stations: ^^Change 
for Lamington—Abington—Crawford and Elvanfo-oot”; 
Kirsty thought how well his voice went with the sough 
of the hill wind and the crying of the wild birds. . . . 
Suddenly she became aware that a tall man in a light 
tweed suit was standing beside her, lifting his hat, and 
looking up she saw that it was Colonel Home. 

^^Oh,” she said, holding out her hand, surprised at the 
pleasure the sight of the laird had given her, ‘^are you 
travelling 

^^Going back to Muirburn. I’ve been to Edinburgh 
for the day.” As he spoke he bent down and lifted her 
dressing-bag. “This is our train—^you’ve been to Lon¬ 
don, haven’t you ?” 

“Yes, seeing my lawyer on tiresome business. I am 
so glad to be back.” 

“You like Phantasy then?” 

“That,” said Kirsty, “is a poor, mild way to put it. I 
adore it. I’m unhappy every minute I’m away from it. 
Oh! It has been so dull in London without the children.” 
She leapt into a carriage. 

“That’s a smoker,” Colonel Home pointed out. 

“I don’t mind. You’ll want to smoke, won’t you ? It’s 
empty. That’s the main thing—I have so many pack¬ 
ages. . . .” 

A porter began to stow them away; but Kirsty said, 
“I wouldn’t trouble to put them on the rack. Ho one is 
likely to come in, so we can pile them on the seat.” She 
turned to Archie Home. “I’ve got minnows for Specky, 


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217 


beautiful blue and silver things—and a landing net. . . . 
They’re all right, aren’t they? The children I mean. 
I had a card this morning written yesterday.” 

Archie Home settled himself in a corner opposite 
Kirsty. 

^^My information,” he said, “dates from 6 p.m. yester¬ 
day. Specky took me fishing in the Hopecarton Burn, 
and afterwards I had tea with Miss Fanny and saw them 
all. Bill Sykes was urbane to a degree, and there seems 
to have been no outstanding misdemeanour in your ab¬ 
sence—at least I heard of none.” 

“Hot of the glass panel in the passage door that Bar¬ 
bara knocked Bill’s head through ? The wonder is that 
he wasn’t killed. . . . Here is Skarlin. Two more sta¬ 
tions and we’ll be home.” 

“You must be tired,” Archie Home said, and Kirsty 
looked up quickly, surprised at the tone in his voice. 

“Hot a bit,” she said briskly, “only longing to see the 
children.” 

They were all waiting for her, Carty and the three 
children, and they put the luggage into the pony-cart and 
walked home, every one talking, no one listening, until, 
in the dusk, they tumbled into Little Phantasy, to the 
gentle greetings of Miss Fanny and Percy the cat, and 
the more strident welcomes of Easie Orphoot and Hellie 
and Miss Wotherspoon. 

Before Kirsty took off her things Bill seized her hand 
and whispered mysteriously, “Come out to the garden. 
I want you. I’ve something to show you. Ho, to-mor¬ 
row won’t do. It must be now.” 

He led her quickly across the lawn and through the 
flower garden to his own little patch. 

“There,” he said proudly. “It’s all dug up for the 


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winter. ... I did it. There were worms in it, long red 
wriggly ones: lots of them. !Now I’m going to plant 
bulbs, Mr. Tod’s getting them for me.” 

Kirsty admired somewhat extravagantly the plot of 
bare earth. . . . Barbara and Specky had welcomed her 
with much warmth. Bill had said nothing, but now he 
thrust his still somewhat earthy little hand into hers, and 
gruffly said, with his head turned away, "'Good luck you're 
backr 

As they returned across the lawn already some windows 
were lit in Little Phantasy. Through the wide window 
of the drawing-room they could see the light of the fire 
leaping up and illumining the long, low room. Miss 
Wotherspoon was lighting the lamps and exchanging re¬ 
marks with Miss Fanny as she did so. The front door 
stood wide open showing the dark oak-panelled hall bright 
with firelight, for a fire had been lit in the hall fireplace 
to welcome home the mistress of the house. 

Kirsty gave a great sigh of content. It was home. 
And never had the children seemed so dear. To keep 
them she would consider any price small. The lady of 
the hotel drawing-room had given sound advice, doubt¬ 
less, but then—she did not know Bill. 

As she was falling asleep that night, thinking drowsily 
over her home-coming, she realised, with an odd little 
stab, that what had given her most the sense of coming 
home was not the vociferous welcome of Barbara and 
Specky, not Carty’s smiles, or Miss Fanny’s kisses, not 
even Bill’s gruff little sentence, but the unexpected sight 
of her landlord in his light tweed suit standing beside 
her on the platform at the junction. 


Chapter XIX 


*‘Whyles o’er the wee bit cup an’ platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty . . 


Robert Burns. 


ST event greatly enjoyed in kitchen circles at Little 



Phantasy was a visit from Mrs. Dickson of The 


Shop. 


It could not happen very often, only when her niece, 
Jessie Sandilands, came down from the Moors to spend 
a few days in the riot of life which was Muirhurn. Jessie 
enj’oyed keeping shop and exchanging ideas with the cus¬ 
tomers, and her aunt snatched the opportunity to visit 
some of her friends. 

Mrs. Dickson, strangely enough, was equally friendly 
with those two widely different characters, Easie Orphoot 
and Miss Wotherspoon. She was a woman of some im¬ 
agination and much sympathy, and many-sided. To 
Easie she talked of cooking and cleaning, of husbands, 
and of the news of the countryside. She and Miss 
Wotherspoon met on ministers and kirks and bodily afflic¬ 
tions. 

Hellie was out on the occasion of this visit. It was 
better so. As Easie said, ^^She’s no bad lassie, Hellie, 
an’ she’s a fine worker turned, but ye canna rightly enj*oy 
a crack wi’ a lassie sittin’ hearkenin’ a’ the time.” 

Tea was in the sitting-room, a really genteel tea, with 
a crochet-edged cloth, and a silver biscuit-box. Kirsty 
had sent in a rich cake as a contribution to the feast, and 
there was hot toast. 

^<My!” said Mrs. Dickson, as having removed her hat 


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she sat dowii to tea, “ye’re comfortable here. A sittin’- 
room to yerselves an’ a piany. I aye say that there’s 
nothing like genteel service for real comfort. Guid 
wages, an’ yer meat jnist pit into yer mooths, like.” 

“Try a bit o’ toast,” Easie urged. “It’s fine an’ but¬ 
tery. I dinna gie a docken for toast when the butter’s 
just scrapit on-” 

“It’s easy cuttin’ whangs off other folk’s leather,” Miss 
Wotherspoon quoted, as she chose a particularly sappy 
piece. 

“Hoots,” said Easie. “Miss Gilmour’s no the kind to 
grudge us onything. An’ mind, it is butter—nane o’ yer 
margarine. Eh, I dinna like then stuff. The knife 
gangs through it so creeshy-like, it fair makes me scun¬ 
ner.” 

“It’s as well,” said Mrs. Dickson, “that a body disna 
think like you . . . for mony a hame sees naething else, 
an’ glad to get it. . . . Ay, I’ll try yer bramble jeely. I 
ken ye’re a great hand at the jeely-makin’, Mrs. Orphoot.” 

“I wud need to be, Mrs. Dickson. I believe I’ve made 
two hunner pounds this summer.” 

“I wud believe you,” Mrs. Dickson nodded. “I’ve 
made a gey lot maself. Dickson canna eat his tea wi’oot 
it, but it’s a queer thing I hardly ever taste jeely except 
when I’m oot to ma tea.” 

“How’s the indigestion ?” Miss Wotherspoon asked. 

“Ho verra week I just keep on wi’ hot water and soda. 
But Dickson tells me in his cheery way that if it went 
something waur would come in its place, so I say as little 
as I can aboot it. How are ye keepin’ yersel’. Miss 
Wotherspoon ? I missed ye oot o’ the kirk on Sabbath.” 

Miss Wotherspoon sighed and shook her head. “I 
could not come, Mrs. Dickson. I hope I’m as good an 
attender as most folk, and it’s a great deprivation to me 



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to miss a service; besides” (Miss Wotberspoon sigbed 
again), ^^me being mistress of a Manse for five years, I 
can sympathise witb tbe feelings of tbe Manse folk when 
people don’t tnm out regularly. But last Sabbatb I was 
fair upset. I could not come. Sabbatb as it was, that 
little Bill—I whiles think he’s worst on tbe Sabbatb-” 

‘^Tut,” said Easie, ^^be’s but a bairn: be means no ill. 
An’ you’re that easy upset, it fair tempts a body to try.” 

Miss Wotberspoon looked sourly at tbe interrupter, 
and ignoring tbe interruption addressed Mrs. Dickson. 
^‘If be was ma bairn, Mrs. Dickson-” 

Easie munching her toast broke in witb a laugh, ^^Ob, 
we a’ ken what auld maids’ bairns are like! Ye’ve lived 
over quait a life, ma wumman. If ye bad feucbt awa’ 
wi’ three husbands like me-” 

Miss Wotberspoon fixed her fellow-servant witb a cold 
eye. 

“A lot of husbands is not a thing I would boast about, 
Easie Orpboot. Juist you mind that tbe woman of Sa¬ 
maria bad seven-” 

Mrs. Dickson, a peace-loving woman, gasped. Would 
Easie rise in her wrath and smite ? But Easie either did 
not understand tbe allusion, or, understanding, refused 
to let it ruffle her. 

^^Ob, ay,” she said, ^^but folk were so queer in tbe Bible 
that ye canna gang by them. Mercy, look at Solomon! 
Seven husbands was a flea-bite to bis wives. He couldna 
number them, I’ve beard tell, and tbe Queen o’ Sheba 
(mebbe kind o’ jealous bersel’) said tbe half badna been 
tell’t. . . . But I dinna ken boo we’ve gotten on to sic 
a daft-like subject. Pass yer cup. Mistress Dickson, and 
try a bit of this London cake. . . . What’s tbe news in 
Muirburn ? I bevna seen a soul since Sabbatb. I micbt 
bae been oot, for Miss Kirsty’s been in London, so there’s 






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been nae visitors an’ less cookin’, but I’ve been makin’ 
an efternoon dress to masel’ for the winter, an’ that’s 
keepit me in.” 

^^Ye’ll bev to let me see it,” Mrs. Dickson said, as she 
stirred the sugar in her second cup of tea. ^^Ay. I beard 
Miss Gilmour was in London. I suppose she’d be up 
gettin’ new goons. It’s fine to hae plenty siller. An’ 
Muirburn is bound to be dull for her, used to a’ kind o’ 
gay places.” 

dinna think it,” said Easie. ‘^She was awfu’ sweir 
to gang and blythe to come back. She tell’t me that 
hersel’. I must say she keeps hersel’ rale happy and 
contented, an’, ye ken, she’s fair bigoted on thae bairns. 
If she was their mither she couldna be mair attentive to 
them, an’ as for that little Bill, she canna see daylicht 
for him.” 

Miss Wotherspoon sniffed. ^^If she lickit him it would 
be better for him. She laughs at him, and encourages 
him in his evil ways. It’s time his faither was here to 
take him in hand. He gets the better of women.” 

^^Is there nae word o’ his faither cornin’ back?” Mrs. 
Dickson asked. ^^Is he aye rangin’ yet aboot foreign 
parts ?” 

Miss Wotherspoon shook her head gloomily. “I’ve 
heard no word of him coming, an’ it’s a pity. He came 
here, ye ken, afore he started on his travels (that would 
be in April), an’ I thought a lot of him. A real person¬ 
able gentleman.” 

“Ay,” said Easie, “a braw fellay. I could hae taen a 
fancy to him masel’.” (Here Miss Wotherspoon shiv¬ 
ered ostentatiously to show her disapproval of Easie’s 
regrettably free, almost rollicking style of speech.) “An’ 
I’m thinkin’—of course this is juist between oorsel’s— 
that Miss Kirsty hersel’ has a notion o’ him.” She nodded 
her head and smiled happily. “He’ll be cornin’ hame 


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223 


one o’ thae days, an’ then Miss Kirsty’ll get the haims 
for keeps. Aji’ a gude thing it’ll he for them, puir lambs, 
an’ for their faither too, for Miss Kirsty’s a nice cratur, 
an’ a real honnie yin, an’ rich forbye.” 

Mrs. Dickson nodded agreement. ^Tree wi’ her money 
too, an’ that canna be said of a body roond here. . . . 
I heard tell that she wanted to send puir ^Nannie Tait 
awa’ a voyage to see if it would help her—an’ her mither 
wi’ her.” 

daft-like proposal,” said Miss Wotherspoon. ^^Mrs. 
Tait kent fine, poor soul, that no voyage would help 
!Nannie. And if there’s one thing a body wants it’s to 
be allowed to die at home. That’s one thing poor folk 
need never envy rich folk—the money to drag about the 
world seeking health.” 

^^Still,” Mrs. Dickson said, was kind of Miss Gil- 
mour to think o’t. Mrs. Tait canna say enough aboot how 
kind she’s been, carryin’ books and pictures to ISTannie 
to amuse her, and sendin’ for everything she could think 
of to tempt her to eat.” 

^^Ay, that’s true,” said Easie. ^^An’ mony a fowl do I 
roast to send to Hawkshaw, an’ light cakes an’ jeelies an’ 
things—^but I doot they are nae guid.” 

Mrs. Dickson shook her head sadly. was up at 
Hawkshaw the ither nicht—just ran up efter I shut the 
shop—an’ d’ye ken I was fair vexed. Mrs. Tait that 
cheery by way of tryin’ to keep Hannie up, an’ aye sayin’, 
^Oh, but she’s better, Mrs. Dickson. She hardly coughed 
at a’ last nicht, and see the fine colour she’s got.’ An’ 
the lassie sittin’ there wi’ daith in her e’en—enough to 
break a body’s hert. Me that has seen them a’ go—Bella 
an’ Aggie, an’ noo Hannie. They were a’ bonnie an’ 
terr’ble fond o’ pleasure, an’ it vexes ye mair to see that 
kind gang. It seems unnatural somehow ... I dinna 
ken.” 


224> 


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Miss Wotherspoon primmed her mouth. “I hope NTan- 
nie’s prepared, Mrs. Dickson.’’ 

^^Eh, I hope so, Miss Wotherspoon, hut I did not feel 
it ma place to say a word. Puir Mrs. Tait’s that anxious 
for ye to tell her that she’s getting better.” 

^^An’ she’s right,” said Easie defiantly. 

‘‘A fool’s paradise,” Miss Wotherspoon said. ‘'She 
would be better to prepare the girl’s mind for what comes 
after death—the Judgment Seat.” 

Easie rose from the table, her rosy face clouded, her 
eyes fixed angrily on Miss Wotherspoon. 

“Ye and yer Judgment Seats! It makes me grue to 
hear ye. I wonder what kinna shape ye’ll mak at the 
Judgment Seat? Did ye ever let yersel’ enjoy onything 
in this bonnie warld? D’ye think the Lord likes folk 
to gang roond wi’ soor faces glumchin’ at their fellow 
craturs ? I warrant He’s better pleased wi’ puir Hannie 
than wi’ you, for a’ ye think ye’re so perfect-” 

Miss Wotherspoon sat dazed under this attack, and 
before she could collect her wits and answer, Mrs. Dick¬ 
son rushed into the breach. 

“Ay,” she said. “Dickson and me were having a crack 
the ither nicht, and he was sayin’ that it’s a solemnising 
thing the thocht o’ growin’ old. He feels it himsel’, for 
he’s in his seventieth year, and efter seventy we’re on 
borrowed time.” 

“Seventy, is he ?” said Easie. Her short-lived anger 
was gone, her face serene. “Wha would think it? But 
thae wee skimpy men never look their age.” Then, seeing 
Mrs. Dickson look slightly affronted at this description 
of her husband, she added hastily, “Hot but what he’s 
a wise-like man too.” 

“Oh, I’m not saying onything for Dickson’s looks,” his 
wife said, “but I wull say this, he’s wonderfu’ quick. 



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N"othing passes him. I dinna see things unless they’re 
under ma verra nose, but he’s as gleg as a hawk.” 

^^I’m no verra sure,” Easie said, looking doubtful, 
‘Hhat that’s a verra guid thing in a man. I like a man 
to be kinna blind to things—it seems mair naitural 
like.” 

‘^He was tellin’ me the ither nicht,” Mrs. Dickson went 
on, absorbed in her husband’s quickness, ^^that there’s 
something atween Mr. Brand and your Miss Carter.” 

^^NTever!” ejaculated Miss Wotherspoon. 

^^He comes here a lot,” Easie said musingly, ^H^ut I 
never thocht o’ Miss Carter. It’s aye Miss Kirsty I think 
aboot. . . . Weel, he micht dae waur. She’s a capable 
lass, and she’ll mak a guid wife.” 

^^Ay,” Mrs. Dickson agreed, “an’ she’s rale pleasant. 
I thocht it wud hae been fine if oor minister had got the 
rich yin, but that would be ower much to hope. Dick¬ 
son’s got a notion in his head that the laird’s fond o’ 
Miss Gilmour, and, mind, Dickson’s quick.” 

“It’s not likely,” said Miss Wotherspoon. “I’ve op¬ 
portunities o’ judgin’ an’ when he comes here Miss Kirsty 
and him are aye quarrellin’ more or less.” 

“Ay, but ye maun mind that biting an’ scarting is a 
Scots courtship,” put in Mrs. Dickson. “I dinna think 
masel’ that Dickson’s right this time. The laird’s cut 
oot for a bachelor, he wadna fash himsel’ to get a wife. 
But I’m thinkin’ Mr. Brand had something in his mind 
the ither Sabbath when he preached on Martha and Mary. 
I thocht he was rale kinna tender on Martha the guid 
housewife. An’ ye tell me Miss Carter’s that.” 

“But we have our Lord’s word for it that Mary chose 
the better part,” said Miss Wotherspoon. 

“A’ the same,” Easie said, “I was aye vexed for 
Martha, the cratur. It was awfu’ provokin’ when she 


226 PINK SUGAR 

was burstin’ gettin’ the denner ready to see Mary sitting 
there hand-idle.” 

it was,” said Mrs. Dickson, ^^bnt I dinna think they 
mak dinners in thae warm pairts. N’ae broth and meat, 
I mean. Missionaries are aye crackin’ aboot a pickle rice 
—but a’ the same it was provokin’. I’ve kent weemen 
like Mary, useless in the hoose but grand at crackin’ wi’ 
the minister. Dickson thinks a’ the warld o’ Martha. 
He canna bide to hear her miscalled. A strange minister 
was preachin’ ae day, and he was praisin’ up Mary for 
a’ that was guid, and then he says, ^There are many 
Marthas in Hell,’ just like that. Dickson fair jumps in 
his seat, an’ I thocht he wad hae risen and gone oot. It 
was an awfu’-like thing to say, was ’t no?” 

^What did he ken aboot it onyway ?” commented Easie. 

^^Ye may say it. But when Dickson thocht it over he 
said that likely the minister had a terrible managin’ wife, 
yin o’ the kind that cleans six days oot o’ the seven and 
winna let a man hae any comfort, so he excused him, puir 
soul! There’s aye a reason for everything. . . . Weel, 
I maun awa’. I’ve hed a rale nice crack.” 


Chapter XX 

. . Methought they were the perfectest char¬ 
acters of a contented marriage, where piety and love 
were all their wealth.” 

Letters of Dorothy Osborne. 

S EPTEMBEK over, October burnt itself out in blaz¬ 
ing trees and golden bracken, misty mornings, and 
still, star-filled nigbts. It was a fit close to a perfect 
summer. Every day as Kirsty wandered by Tweed and 
saw the trees shadowed orange and red in the blue depths 
she thought, ^^This must be the last: to-morrow the winter 
storms will break’’; but day followed day in beauty. 

Again and again through those autumn days the 
thought came to her that never had she been so consciously 
happy, so aware of well-being. Every hour, from early 
morning when she wakened and watched the mist drift 
before the sun from the scarred face of Katchell to the 
drawing in of chairs in the lamplight and the scented 
blaze of the wood fire, seemed to bear something precious, 
precious and unforgettable. 

She had ceased to look forward. Whatever the future 
held it must hold change: Alan Crawford was on his way 
home, a very slow progress, it certainly seemed, but his 
face was set to the West, and some day he must arrive. 
Erom that day she kept her head firmly turned away. 

Kirsty was now perfectly at home with her neighbours. 
Merren Strang was her great friend—there was much 
coming and going between Hopewaterfoot and Little 
Phantasy. The kindly couple at Cherrytrees had given 
Kirsty and her family a standing invitation to any meal, 


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and there was no place she liked better to spend an after¬ 
noon than the green and white drawing-room which 
smelt always of mignonette, being petted by Mr. and Mrs. 
Anthony Hay, eating an uncommonly good tea, and lis¬ 
tening to the faded tinkle of the musical box. 

Lady Carruthers descended on Little Phantasy at all 
sorts of odd hours, impatient to discuss some new and 
harebrained scheme, or talk over the latest idea that had 
impressed her. Kirsty asked the M’Candlishes to din¬ 
ner, and they met frequently at different houses, but 
there was always a certain restraint between the minister's 
wife and Kirsty. To Kirsty there seemed a continual 
question in the eye of Mrs. M^Candlish. The good lady 
eould not understand, and it rankled with her, why the 
Little Phantasy people should have perferred Muirbum 
church to Ketherton, and Eobert Brand as a preacher to 
her own Korman. ^Tt isn’t,’’ she said to herself, ^^as if 
there was any comparison.” 

The Elliots came over frequently from Laverlaw, and 
were very welcome guests, and Colonel Home limped in 
now and again, and played gravely with the children, 
who loved him much. ^Must like a shy child,” Kirsty 
told herself, ^^or a frightened dog. Leave him alone and 
look the other way and he’ll make advances.” 

Colonel Home even went so far as to give a dinner 
party at Phantasy, to which Miss Panny went, feeling 
vastly venturesome, and wearing diamonds with her vel¬ 
vet gown, and only one shawl, and that of lace. 

Mrs. Duff-Whally invited Kirsty once to dinner, twice 
to luncheon, three times to tennis to The Towers in the 
space of one fortnight. Kirsty went once to luncheon 
and found that her hostess, while meaning to be every¬ 
thing that was kind, had a wonderful way of mingling 
insults with her hospitality, so that her guests wore a 
cowed look. Feeling utterly unable to keep up with such 


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229 


a stream of invitations, Kirsty asked the lady and her 
daughter to a luncheon party to meet Sir Amdrew and 
Lady Carruthers, the Elliots, the Anthony Hays, and 
Colonel Home, and ceased to make any further effort in 
the matter. 

With Hovemher the first storms of winter descended on 
Phantasy, and after three days of violent wind and rain 
which whirled away the last reluctant leaves, they woke 
to find a white world. 

Breakfast was a restless meal that morning, for the 
children rushed continually to the window to report as to 
how deep the snow was, and if there would he enough to 
make a really good snow-man. . 

Crumbs had to be taken to the birds where a space had 
been cleared at the front door, and to Bill’s delight a 
robin came and hopped round his feet. 

^^Look at the darling,” he whispered, standing very still 
so as not to frighten the bird. ‘^He’s not afraid of me: 
he’s pecking.” 

“ ‘Little hunchback of the snow,’ ” Kirsty quoted, as 
she watched the valiant bunch of feathers. “We must 
get a cocoanut. Bill, and hang it out for them. And at 
Christmas we’ll have a bird’s Christmas tree.” 

“Yes,” said Bill, “and I’ll tie Percy in the stable.” 

“Oh, poor Percy,” Barbara protested, “then he’ll have 
no Christmas tree.” 

“You can give him a tree in the stable,” Bill said 
carelessly. 

“Shan’t, then,” said Barbara, and was going on to give 
her opinion of Bill, when Kirsty broke in, “"^o’s going 
with me to Priorsford to-day ?” 

“Oh, Pie dear, I should love to,” Barbara cried, “but 
I’m going with Kellie to tea at her mother’s. It’s such 
a nice place. They have a cat with two kittens, and a 
stuffed fox, and potato scones for tea.” 


230 


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^^You must certainly not miss those raptures. It is 
very kind of ISTellie’s mother to invite you. Well, the 
hoys must go with me for they both need their hair cut. 
I wonder if Aunt Fanny would care to go? Or Carty?” 

Miss Fanny, when asked, looked shudderingly out at 
the white world, drew her shawls round her, and edged 
her chair nearer the fire. 

^^Hot to-day, thank you, dear. But if you would be so 
kind as to match this wool I should he so grateful j and 
ask the bookseller if my Life of Faith didn’t come last 
week, and get me a few more of those lozenges at the 
chemist’s—perhaps you had better take the bottle to be 
sure of getting the right kind. You won’t be long in 
being hack, will you ?” 

^'Oh, dear, no! We’ll leave just after luncheon, and 
he hack by four o’clock. Carty, would you care to come ? 
Have you anything that wants doing in Priorsford ?” 

''Oh, thank you.” Miss Carter hesitated. "As a mat¬ 
ter of fact, I thought of going to Hawkshaw with those 

papers and things you laid out for HannieTait, hut . . .” 

"FTo. NTo. Don’t change your plans. I shall he so 
glad if you will go to Hawkshaw. I like Hannie to have 
something every day. Her mother says it helps her 
through wonderfully to have something to expect. You 
don’t think it will he too difficult getting up the hill in 
the snow ? Well, our capacious hired car will only have 
to carry the hoys and myself. I wonder if Rebecca Brand 
would like to come. Ho, I believe this is the afternoon 
of her Mothers’ Meeting. Somehow I can’t imagine 
Rebecca at a Mothers’ Meeting, hut still_” 

Specky’s eyes were glued on Tweed all the way to 
Priorsford, and he was rewarded by the sight of a heron. 
Bill sat cocked on a little seat—he had asked as a special 
favour to he allowed to sit there—^wearing his new winter 
things, a powder-blue overcoat with a velvet collar, and 


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231 


a black velour bat that gave him an oddly ecclesiastical 
look. Buttoned under his overcoat, with the head stick¬ 
ing out, was an old crimson Teddy hear which he had 
feared might be lonely if left at home. Bill was on his 
best behaviour, pleased with the outing, and proud to 
have his hair cut along with Specky. 

^We’ll go first to the hairdresser,” Kirsty decreed, 
^^and I’ll leave you there and do my shopping. Have 
you anything you want to do?” 

^^Yes,” said Specky, want to go and look in at the 
window where all the fishing things are.” 

^^But you won’t be fishing in winter,” Kirsty reminded 
him. 

^^Oh, I know, I only want to look at all the rods and 
minnows, and flies and things, and Barbara gave me six¬ 
pence to buy her something.” 
see. And Bill?” 

Bill’s face was eager. ^^Could I see the Muirburn 
engine turn round at the station?” 

‘^Yes, that is to say if there is a train in at the time.” 

It was an agreeable surprise to find that the Priorsford 
pavements were dry. 

^^Miss Wotherspoon is right,” thought Kirsty, remem¬ 
bering how that lady had remarked after ploughing 
through the muddy roads round Phantasy; ^^there’s a lot 
to be said for plain-stanes.” 

She took the boys to the hairdresser, and did the list of 
errands given her by Easie. She procured from the 
chemist the right kind of lozenge for Miss Fanny, and 
visited the bookseller to retrieve the Life of Faith and 
get some new books and magazines. 

When she went back to the hairdresser’s she found 
both boys ready and waiting for her, their hats looking 
uncomfortably large for their shorn heads. They were 
sitting solemnly on high chairs in a glass-enclosed com- 


232 


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partment, never exchanging a remark, companioned by 
a stout man who breathed heavily. 

Out on the street Bill marched a little in front (like the 
cat, he preferred to walk by his wild lone), but Specky 
put his hand in Kirsty’s. 

‘‘1 don’t much like having my hair cut,” he told her. 
^^It was a boy who did me, and he asked if I wanted it 
short. I said I didn’t know, and he said, ^What did your 
Maw say?’ He meant you. He thought you were our 
mother.” 

^^Did he ?” said Kirsty. . . I’m afraid he has made 
it too short. It was stupid of me not to tell him, but, 
you see, I never took boys to have their hair cut before.” 

^^Oh,” said Specky, ^^it’ll last the longer. There was 
a card hanging in the place telling all the prices. 8d. for 
a hair-cut, 4d. for a shave. The dearest thing I could 
have done was to have a shampoo and my beard trimmed. 
If I had had everything it would have cost 4s. 9d., and 

if I had had everything twice it would have cost-” 

Specky made a laborious calculation, ^^it would have cost 
9s. 6d. And if I had had everything done three times it 

would have cost-” but this was too difficult and his 

voice trailed away. 

Kirsty’s hand tightened on the small hand in hers. 
The boy in the shop had thought she was their ^^Maw.” 
If only that were true, if only she might keep them for 
ever—Specky with his gentle ways. Bill so bad, and 
Barbara such an affectionate destroying angel. . . . 

It was almost dark when the car bore them back to 
Phantasy. As they passed the drawing-room window 
Miss Wotherspoon was in the act of drawing the curtains, 
and the light streamed out on the snowy garden. 

Miss Fanny was feeling a little aggrieved. When a 
meal was at a fixed time she liked to have it then. Tea 
was at four, and it was now half past. 




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233 


one has come in/’ she told Kirsty. ‘‘I can’t think 
where Miss Carter is. She went out just after you did, 
and it isn’t a long walk to Hawkshaw. She may he lying 
with a broken leg, who knows ? And when you didn’t 
come I was sure there had been an accident; it is so 
dangerous motoring in snow. I was just wondering what 
steps we could take—women alone are so helpless—^when 
I heard the car coming. . . . Are you going to have tea 
as you are, dear ?” 

you’ll let me, Aunt Fanny. I know you don’t like 
people to sit in the house in out-door things, hut it was 
really rather cold driving, and I would like to get thawed. 
Carty perhaps has met some one—Merren Strang, maybe, 
and gone home to tea with her.” 

^^And had you a pleasant afternoon?” Miss Fanny 
asked presently, soothed by the hot tea and a particularly 
good toasted muffin. 

^^Yery,” said Kirsty, her feet on the high brass fender, 
her cup on the table beside her, a muffin in her hand. 
^^The boys were angelic, almost frighteningly good. 
Specky studied all the fishing things in Watson’s, and 
Bill (that’s what kept us) met the three-thirty train from 
Muirburn and watched it turn.—I’m not quite sure that 
that black hat is a success. He looked like a small dis¬ 
senting parson, I thought. I’d better get him a blue one 
to match his coat.—Oh, yes, we enjoyed ourselves greatly. 
I think if I didn’t live at Phantasy I would choose to 
live in Priorsford. To-day as we came round the comer 
of the Old Town, and saw the white shoulders of the hills 
humped above the grey houses, and Tweed running dark 
and drumly under the wide bridge, and when we walked 
in the clean little town with its bright shops (I love to 
shop in Priorsford, they serve you with such interest) 
and watched the people greet each other all like members 
of one big family, I felt the charm of it as I never did 


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before. There is something about a summer place in 
winter—the drawing together of the real inhabitants after 
the migration of the mere visitors (like the robins and the 
others when the swallows go), the settling down to the 
short days and the long nights, the thought of all the 
little festivities, the cosy talkative tea parties, the in¬ 
formal dinners, the dances, the preparing for and rehears¬ 
ing theatricals, all the hundred pleasant things that people 
amuse themselves with through the dark days.—Doesn’t 
it seem to you all very attractive 

dear, quite. At Harelaw we had very happy 
winters, though, of course, it was only a small village.” 

^^And I expect Muirburn has its own social life.—Why, 
Aunt Fanny, it must be quite dark outside. Where can 
Carty be?” 

Miss Fanny looked troubled. ‘^The newspapers are 
so terrible now, it hardly seems safe to walk about. And 
if anything did happen it would be so upsetting for us all 
—one would never feel really comfortable again.” 

Kirsty laughed. ^'Then I hope for all our sakes that 
all is well. Happily, an athletic young woman isn’t likely 
to come to grief. I don’t know why one’s mind should 
always rush to an accident when any one is late, there 
are so many perfectly simple things that may have hap¬ 
pened. She may have stayed at Hawkshaw, and let Mrs. 
Tait go out. She may have gone home to tea with some 
one. She may—oh, anything. But if she isn’t in soon 
Hellie and I will take lanterns and go out and meet her. 

. . . Hullo! here she is. Why, Carty, we pictured our¬ 
selves going out with lanterns, tracking your footsteps 
in the snow like Lucy Grey. . . . Were you kept at 
Hawkshaw ? How is Hannie ?” 

Miss Fanny looked at Miss Carter, and it struck her 
that the girl was looking rather odd. Her face was bril¬ 
liant with colour (that, she admitted to herself, might 


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235 


be the effect of the frosty air), and her eyes were shining 
with a light that surely a visit to a sick girl could not 
have put there. Her manner, too, was odd. She stood 
back as if unwilling to come into the bright light round 
the fire. 

^^Hannie is much the same,” she said rather hurriedly, 
sat with her while her mother ran down to the shop 
for some things. We looked at the pictures in the mag¬ 
azines you sent, and she was quite looking forward to 
her tea; the cake with the icing, and the violets gave her 
an appetite.” 

^^By the way, have you had tea, my dear?” 

^Well—I haven’t as a matter of fact, but please don’t 
trouble about getting any; it doesn’t matter.” 

In Miss Fanny’s eyes dear me was writ large. Out 
till nearly six o’clock and no tea! Where in the 
world . . . ? 

^^Of course it matters,” Kirsty said, ringing the bell. 

Miss Wotherspoon after an interval answered it with 
her usual aggrieved air, but Kirsty was bold now. 

^Tresh tea, please. Miss Wotherspoon. Miss Carter 
has been detained.” 

Stella Carter came forward, pulling off her thick 
gloves. ^^I’m ashamed to give you all this trouble. . . .” 
She sat down near Kirsty and held out her hands to the 
blaze. ^^Had you a nice drive ?” 

^Wery. The boys were models, and are now shaven 
and shorn in a most priestly way. ... I caught a glimpse 
of Mrs. Duff-Whally’s opulent car rolling along the High 
Street. Otherwise the afternoon was uneventful.” 

Miss Carter said nothing more, and an odd restraint 
fell on the three women. 

Miss Wotherspoon brought in fresh tea. Kirsty poured 
out a cup, and Miss Carter drank it thoughtfully. 

^^You’re not eating anything,” Miss Fanny said. 


236 


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only want the tea, thank you.” 

^^Carty,” said Kir sty, hope you haven’t got a chill. 

It was bitterly cold out to-day.” 

Stella Carter put down her cup and said, rather shakily, 
as she rose to her feet, clutching her fur gloves as if for 
support.—^^Oh, no. I haven’t got a chill or anything, but 
I don’t know how to tell you. You have been so kind, 
both of you, and—I don’t know what you’ll think of me 
—but I met Mr. Brand coming from Hawkshaw, and he 

asked me to go for a walk, and he—and he- Well, 

I’ve promised to marry him some time.” 

She stood looking at once so proud and defiant and 
beseeching that Kirsty rose and flung her arms round her 
neck and hugged her. Then half laughing and half cry¬ 
ing they subsided together on to the sofa. 

^Well, of all the nice things,” Kirsty said, turning to 
Miss Kanny. confess such a thing did enter my mind, 
but it seemed too good to come true. I like Mr. Brand 
so much, and you will be such a nice couple in the Manse. 
Oh, Carty, won’t it be fun doing the house up ?” 

^^Oh, but nothing is settled like that. We can’t be 
married for ages. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said any¬ 
thing, but I couldn’t keep you in the dark even for an 
hour—but no one else is to know for ages. We are both 
so poor, and there are so many things to think of, we 
can’t call ourselves engaged even—^but I wanted you and 
Miss Fanny to know at once.” 

should think so. We would never have forgiven 
you if you hadn’t told us, would we. Aunt Fanny ?” 

Miss Fanny smiled acquiescently, and Miss Carter, 
gathering her belongings, murmured that she must go 
and change, and fled from the room. 

“Aren’t you pleased ?” Kirsty asked her aunt. “Don’t 
you think it’s a good thing for them both ?” 

Miss Fanny looked into the fire. “It’s a good thing 



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237 


for Miss Carter. She’s a nice girl, of course, and will do 
her best, but she is English, and how can a girl brought 
up in the English Church understand a congregation like 
Muirburn? Of course, she could play the harmonium 
and save a salary. ... I don’t suppose she has a penny. 
It is so like a minister to marry some one with no money.” 

Kirsty was amazed at the bitterness in her aunt’s tone, 
think it is very nice of him,” she said. ^‘1 wouldn’t 
have much respect for a minister who married for money. 
What’s money after all ?” 

great deal. You have never known what it is to be 
scrimped for money, so you don’t realise its value. I 
don’t say that it is necessary to happiness, but it certainly 
helps enormously—especially in a minister’s house. A 
minister is always seeing cases where a little money would 
make all the difference, he can make such a good use of it, 
smooth so many rough bits for people—it is a great bless¬ 
ing when he or his wife have more than they need.” 

Kirsty nodded. suppose so, but it isn’t essential. 
. . . Just think. Aunt Eanny, if we had never come here 
this would never have happened. It’s a great responsi¬ 
bility in a way, but it’s splendid to have been the means 
of making two people happy.” 

^^Yes,” said Aunt Eanny. ‘^Yes. But what about Miss 
Brand? Will she be pleased?” 

Kirsty stared at her aunt for a moment. 

^^Eebecca,” she said, ^‘Rebecca! I’d forgotten about 
her.” 

‘^She will lose her home.” 

^^I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose she couldn’t go 
on living at the Manse. We must think of something 
. . . and make it up to Rebecca somehow. . . . Oh, but, 
Aunt, just think of these two creatures wandering about 
in the dark, in the snow (^We went for a walk,’ said 
Carty), utterly unaware that they were tea-less and cold 


238 


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and wet, lost to everything but the fact that they were 
together, these two out of all the world.” She leaned 
forward pleadingly. ^^Don’t damp me. Aunt Fanny. I 
am 'so happy. ... I must be very feminine, for I abso¬ 
lutely glow with interest over the first love affair that has 
ever come close to me. When you see people lost in 
happiness like that do you never regret that you didn’t 
marry 

Miss Fanny neatly folded aside her knitting, and pre¬ 
pared to go upstairs to her warm bedroom, to change her 
day-time costume for the striped grey silk with the old 
lace, which was her usual dinner dress. 

'^Never/* she said with quite unusual firmness. 

It was obvious that Miss Fanny did not glow. 


Chapter XXI 

“Brightness falls from the air; 

Queens have died young and fair; 

Dust hath closed Helen’s eyes.” 

Thomas Nash. 

I T looked as if the hard weather had come to stay. Tor 
three days it was bright keen frost, then the sky was 
overcast, a wind came strongly from the north, and snow¬ 
flakes fell falteringly at intervals. 

^Tt’s going to be more snow,” Kirsty said, as they stood 
giving the birds their breakfast. ‘^Easie calls it ^a feed¬ 
ing storm,’ whatever that may mean.” 

‘^Oh, good,” said Specky, hope it will snow and 
snow until the glen is filled up level.” 

^^And how would we get food?” Miss Carter asked. 
^^The vans wouldn’t be able to get up from Priorsford, 
and we would get no meat or bread.” 

“Easie would bake scones and cakes,” Specky said 
comfortably. 

Bill was shunting up and down in his Wellington boots, 
making the snow fly round him like spray. 

^T’m taking the golden journey to Aberdeen,” he an¬ 
nounced. 

Kirsty laughed. ^^Surely they are brave,” she quoted, 
'Vho take the golden journey to—Aberdeen. Carty, you 
hear? Bill listens to the reading after all. . . . Oh, my 
dear, aren’t the white hills strange and lovely against that 
sullen sky? I’m not at all sure that winter isn’t even 
more beautiful than summer.” 

239 


240 


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She turned to go into the house and found Easie in 
the hall. Her smooth round face was distressed, and 
she twisted her clean apron in her fingers. 

^^Miss Kirstj, mem, weVe juist been bearin’ that Han- 
nie Tait slippit awa’ early this mornin’. The cauld spell 
had juist nippit her aff, puir lass!” 

^^Oh, Easie,” Kirsty cried, and fell silent, amazed al¬ 
most at her own feeling of sorrow. Nannie, so pretty in 
the shadows of the old Castle, gentle, eager, pleased with 
everything that was brought to her. To have her no 
longer to think of, to carry little presents to—it would 
be strange; she would miss her. 

And what of the mother who had watched her last 
child die? 

Easie was wiping her eyes with her apron. 

‘Weel, she’s won awa’. An’ if there was nae better- 
ness for her here it’s mebbe juist as week It’s the road 
we maun a’ gang, but to gang at twenty is sad and sad.” 

Kirsty nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and fol¬ 
lowed by Miss Carter went into the drawing-room where 
Miss Fanny was already ensconced beside the fire. She 
was knitting—she never allowed herself to read before 
luncheon—and presently she meant to write a few letters. 
She looked up as the two girls came in, and said chid- 
ingly, ^^Did I see you out in the snow, Kirsty, with 
nothing on your head? And Miss Carter, too. It’s ex¬ 
traordinary how reckless young people are. You won’t 
value your health till you lose it.” 

‘Tt is cold,” Kirsty said, going over and standing by 
the fire. ^There’s a wind like a knife; but out there 
where we feed the birds it’s quite sheltered. . . . Aunt 
Fanny, Nannie Tait is dead.” 

Miss Fanny at once assumed the expression she kept 
for news of death and disasters: it made her face seem 
unnaturally long. 


PINK SUGAR 


241 


she has got away,” she said solemnly. ^^And I was 
just hurrying to finish this shawl for her as the weather 
had got so cold. . . . But in such an hour as we think 
not . . .” She sighed deeply. ^^She won^t need shawls 
or anything we can do for her now. Poor !Nannie!” 

^Why ^poor’?” Kirsty asked. 

Miss Fanny looked up, startled at her tone, and Kirsty 
went on: ‘^It’s a very stumbling thing to me in my path 
through life to find that the best people—I mean the 
goodest people, who believe most firmly in the next world 
and the joys that there await the blest, have so small a 
desire to arise and go to them. They call the blessed 
dead ^poor.’ Another funny thing they do is to send 
flowers with deepest sympathy. Who are they sympa¬ 
thising with? The flowers are, I suppose, a last gift 
to the one who has gone, a last token of afiection, and 
sympathy seems sadly out of place. Last night. Aunt 
Fanny, at prayers you thanked God that we had been 
spared while so many had been called into His presence. 
... I wish people weren’t so . . . so illogical.” 

Miss Fanny knitted rapidly for a minute, and then said 
in a hurt but dignified tone, did not mean to irritate 
you, Kirsty, with my remark. I meant nothing when I 
used the word ^poor’: it was simply a word, an ad¬ 
jective, perhaps, as you say, inappropriate. If Kannie 
Tait had been in our own class—I mean a friend—I 
should have said ^dear’ instead of ‘poor’—would that 
have pleased you better?” 

Kirsty, already ashamed of her impatience, dropped 
on her knees beside her aunt and cried in her impulsive 
way, “I’m the rudest of wretches, and you, my dear, are 
the funniest of aunts. Forgive me, please.” 

But Miss Fanny drew away, affronted. 

“I don’t see why you should say I am funny. I have 
no intention of being so, I assure you, and as for what 


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,you say about good people not wanting to go to Heaven, 
I^m sure it isn’t true.” Her voice quivered with self-pity. 
^^Ho normal person wants to die; even St. Paul said, 
^JSTot that I would be unclothed, but clothed upon,’ and 
it is a step in the dark no matter how you look at it. . . . 
But I always remember what my dear friend Christian 
Johnstone said—^you’ve heard me speak of her?—Mrs. 
Arnold Johnstone: we were at school together. It was 
such a lovely place, Darnshiels, and she had everything to 
make life pleasant: an enviable social position, a family 
that adored her, most successful grandchildren, perfect 
health—her teeth were like a girl’s. And when I was 
staying there two summers ago, we were having tea in the 
rose-garden, and the children were round her treating 
her as if she had been a queen, and the sun shining, 
and I said to her, ^Oh, Christian, you are a fortunate 
woman, you’ve everything in the world your heart can 
desire.’ And she smiled at me, and looked at all the 
beauty round us, and said, ^Yes, but I am so looking 
forward to the next world.’ Of course, she may have 
meant her husband, she adored his memory. Anyway, 
she died of influenza the following winter. She was the 
best woman I ever knew.” Miss Fanny knitted silently 
for a minute, and then said somewhat irrelevantly, ‘H 
can’t see why any one would want to be cremated. I do 
so dislike cremation and divorce.” 

^^But surely,” Kirsty said, ^^there isn’t much connection 
between them ?” 

Miss Fanny laid down her knitting. ^Terhaps not, 
but they give me the same jarred feeling—both so un¬ 
natural. ... My dear, I quite forgot I meant to ask 
Miss Wotherspoon to put an extra cover on my bed. She 
will be in my room now.” 

^^ut let me,” Kirsty cried, but Miss Fanny had pulled 
her shawls round her and fluttered from the room. 


PINK SUGAR 


243 


Kirsty went over to the window to where Stella Carter 
stood looking out. She turned as Kirsty approached. 

can’t get it out of my head/’ she said, ‘^the thought of 
that pooirmother in that grim old place, sitting beside her 
dead child. . . . Oh, why is ^Nannie finished with every¬ 
thing so soon?” 

Kirsty shook her head, smiling sadly. “We ask and 
ask. . . . D’you remember Bill when the beloved puppy 
died ? ^Oh, Pie, why did it wear out so soon ?’ . . . To 
have finished joy and moan at twenty!” 

Miss Carter wiped her eyes. “I feel mean to be so 
happy,” she said. 

“Don’t feel mean. It’s life—some weep and some 
dance. It’s your turn to-day to be happy . . . You’ve 
worked a miracle in Rob Brand. He looked a different 
man when I saw him yesterday.” 

“I’m not half good enough for him, Kirsty. It isn’t 
that he talks religion, for he doesn’t, but you can’t know 
him without realising what his religion means to him. I 
should so hate to feel that my companionship should even 
the least little bit in fhe world make him less keen. I 
mean to say I’m afraid marrying me might somehow 
lower his ideals—^you see, I wasn’t brought up in that 
atmosphere and it must make a difference, don’t you 
think ?” 

“Ko, I don’t,” said Kirsty stoutly. “You are bar gold 
yourself, my dear, and the two of you will make a splendid 
combination. You are so practical that you will keep his 
feet straight on earth when his head is in the clouds; and 
he is so full of his visions that he will be able to carry 
you with him on his fiights.—Has Rebecca written to you 
or sent any message ?” 

“Hot yet. You see, I expect it was a surprise to her 
and not a pleasant one, and she will want time to get 
used to the idea. I know if Rob were my brother T 


24>4f 


PINK SUGAR 


should detest any girl he cared for. I^m just hoping 
that when she sees how happy we are she won’t mind so 
much.” 

That Stella was happy there was little doubt. There 
was a shining look in her eyes and a spring in her step, 
and always about her mouth a little secret smile. 

Kirsty looked very kindly at her as she said, ^^I’m sure 
Eebecca is too good a woman to grudge her brother hap¬ 
piness. When one person is happy he or she helps all 
the people round. It’s like a fire lighted. ... Do you 
think I might go to Hawkshaw this afternoon ? Would 
it seem an intrusion ? I want to take some flowers—I 
was very fond of N’annie.” 

Miss Carter nodded. ''I think Mrs. Tait would like 
you to go. She told me the other day that Nannie 
'wearied on your visits.’—Well, I must be off. By the 
wy, Barbara said I was to remind you that they are 
V going out to tea to-day, and she wants to know if they 
might have their reading after luncheon instead of after 
tea; they don’t want to miss it.” 

Since the days had shortened Kirsty had begun to read 
aloud to the children every evening for an hour after tea. 
Their mother, it seemed, had always read to them. 

"Yes, of course, but what shall I read to-day? Can 
you suggest something with lovely words ? That’s what 
Barbara likes. We’ve had the Morh Arthur, and The 
Golden Journey to Samarhand, and some of Kipling and 
Newbolt, also some of Puch of PooVs Hill, and various 
fairy books. Yesterday I read them about Flodden from 
Jean Lang’s Land of Romance, They loved that but 
were terribly inflamed against the English. Jean Lang 
makes such pictures with words. Do they know about 
Mary Queen of Scots?” 

"A little, not very much. You see,” Miss Carter gave 
a small deprecating smile, "it’s rather delicate work for 


PINK SUGAR 


245 


me, a mere Englishwoman, to attempt to teach Scots 
history to snch perfervid patriots.” 

Kir sty laughed. ^Well, admit you English didn’t 
come well out of that chapter of history, hut I’ll soften 
it down for Barbara.” 

Kirsty gathered all she could find of beauty in the 
greenhouse and devoted the rest of her morning making 
peace with Miss Eanny, who was inclined to he pensive 
and quiet, obviously brooding over Kirsty’s unfortunate 
remarks. 

After luncheon she retired with the children to the 
schoolroom. ^^What shall I read?” she asked. 

‘Toetry,” cried Barbara, thrusting a book into her 
hands. 

“Ko,” protested Specky, who was lying on the floor 
tidying his fly-book, fit’s that beastly Queen of the May 
thing and she only wants to cry. Bead Huch Finn/' 

Bill, who was as usual, walking by his ^Vild lone” at 
the other end of the room said, “Ko, I want Toad he went 
a-pleasuring - 

‘‘If you can’t agree,” said Kirsty, “I’d better decide. 
I’ll read to you about poor Queen Mary.” 

“I’ve seen her,” said Bill airily. 

Barbara giggled. “He means our Queen Mary. He 
saw her once driving in the Park and he wouldn’t lift 
his hat, not all we could do. Go on. Pie, read about 
Queen Mary of Scotland. Here’s the Eomance book.” 

Kirsty turned over the pages. “I don’t know how 
much of this you would understand,” she said, but im¬ 
patient Barbara assured her that, for herself, she pre¬ 
ferred things she didn’t quite understand. 

“Well—here is the sort of spelling that will appeal to 
Specky. Whistle— quhissel. That is almost as good as 
yph for wife. And listen, Barbara, when Queen Mary 
was at Jedburgh getting better of an illness, she whiled 



246 


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away tlie time, she and her four Maries, doing beautiful 
needlework. This is what she ordered Tn all possible 
haste’ from Edinburgh, Twenty ells of red champit 
chamlet of silk, with twenty ells white plaiding, four ells 
white taffety, three ells fine black velvet . . . six ounces 
black stitching silk, with a pound of black thread-’ ” 

Barbara gasped. ^^Had she to sew up a pound of black 
thread ? How awful! Go on. Pie. Bead about Bizzio 
being murdered and about her being locked up in Loch 
Leven.” 

wouldn’t mind being locked up in Loch Leven,” 
Specky said thoughtfully, as he sorted out tangled casts. 
^^That’s where the Loch Leven trout come from. Did 
she ever get out ?” 

So Birsty read to them the tragic story: plot following 
plot, prison following prison, hopes budding only to be 
blasted, but always the unhappy Queen carrying where- 
ever she went that golden key that unlocks hearts. Would 
that I had died at Jedburgh was her bitter cry, and well 
for her if she had. But at last it was over, the lonely 
hours, the insults, the misery of mind and body were fin¬ 
ished; the tragedy of Mary Stuart was ended. 

^Surely that night,’ ” read Kirsty, Tighing spirits 
must have held court at Holyrood. The winds sobbed 
and wailed through the glens and cleughs of snow-clad 
Teviotdale, the flooded rivers moaned. Did there, per¬ 
chance, ride out from the grey house in the Backgate of 
Jedburgh a slim girlish figure on a white palfrey— 
Death’s pale horse—making the wild things on the Liddes- 
dale hills fly in fear as horse and rider galloped past 
across the dark moors, down the valley to Hermitage V ” 
Barbara gave a sigh of impotent fury as Kirsty fin¬ 
ished. 

Pie, she said solemnly, shall never forgive the 
English, never. Miss Strong, at Clapham, taught me a 



PINK SUGAR 


247 


song about ^England homeland/ but I just shut my 
mouth tight. I didn’t sing, for it’s no home of mine.” 

Kirsty put her arm round the child. 

^‘But, Barbara dear, these are old unhappy far-off 
things. You are as bad as Pet’Marjorie, who consigned 
Queen Elizabeth straight to ^her very great friend the 
divil’! You don’t know Tet Marjorie.’ Tut-tut, this’ll 
never do. I’ve a spare copy you shall have. . . . ITow 
isn’t it about time you were getting ready for Cherry- 
trees ?” 

^Tt’s a party,” said Barbara, her tears for Queen Mary 
already dried. ^Y7on’t it be fun ?” 

^^o, it won’t,” Specky said. ^‘N’ot if there are girls. 
I do hate girls.” 

^^Oh, Specky, think of Barbara,” Kirsty protested. 

^Well, she can’t help it, but she doesn’t like being a 
girl. If they dance I’ll look at the stuffed seal and the 
big trout in the case. . . . Aren’t you coming. Pie?” 

“I’m not invited. I’m going to Hawkshaw now. You 
know,” she looked round at the three faces turned to her, 
“you know that Kannie Tait died this morning?” 

Instantly it was as if a shutter had been let down in 
the eyes of each child, and they looked uneasily away. 
This was something they did not understand, and did not 
wish to discuss. 

^Tlun, my darlings. Mr. Dickson is coming for you 
at half-past three. You’ll be very good and reflect credit 
on Little Phantasy, I know. You will be good, won’t 
you. Bill?” 

“I’ll play with the musical box,” was Bill’s noncom¬ 
mittal reply. 

When Kirsty reached the old courtyard at Hawkshaw, 
the door of Mrs. Stark’s cottage opened, and Agnes came 
out to shake the crumbs out of the tea-cloth. 


248 


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^^Miss Gilmour,” she said, then as her glance fell on 
the flowers, ^^Youfll be for Mrs. Tait’s. Eh, puir body, 
pnir body/’ 

^^Bring Miss Gilmour in, Agnes,” came a voice from 
the kitchen, ^^an’ dinna stand hingin’ there lettin’ in the 
canid.” 

‘G really can’t stay, Mrs. Stark,” Kirsty said, stepping 
into the kitchen that Agnes might shut the door. 
must get back before the darkening.” 

^^Tuts, sit doon for a meenit. What’s a’ yer hurry? 
Agues’ll mak ye a cup o’ tea. We’ve juist feenished. 
I like ma denner aboot eleeven an’ ma tea afore three 
o’clock.” 

^ ^Whiles it’s no much after two when ye have it, 
Mither,” Agnes said. 

^Why, Mrs. Stark,” Kirsty exclaimed, ^^at that rate 
you’ll soon have all your meals over in the forenoon. 
When do you have supper ?” 

get our parritch aboot five when Wullie and his 
faither come in, and then they get their tea, an’ we’re a’ 
beddit on the back o’ eight o’clock. It saves fire and 
licht, and what is there to sit up for ?” 

Kirsty agreed that it was a good plan, and rose to go. 

‘'I’m taking these flowers to Kannie. Do you think 
Mrs. Tait will mind me calling ? I only want to tell her 
how sorry we all are.” 

Mrs. Stark drew her hand over her mouth as if trying 
to smooth away the lines. 

"Gang if ye like and tell her ye’re vexed. It’ll dae 
her nae harm, but it’s juist poor in’ water on a drooned 
moose. . . . They cam’ for me this mornin’ afore it was 
licht. I kent a’ the lassies, but NTannie was the bonniest 
o’ them a’. . . . Ye’ll find Mrs. Tait verra colleckit. 
She’s the sense to say naething when there’s naething to 
be said.” 


PINK SUGAR 


249 


The snow was beginning to fall as Kirsty went up the 
flight of worn steps to the doorway of the Castle, tiny 
hard particles that blew off the hard surface of the trod¬ 
den snow, and lay in little heaps in sheltered nooks. A 
hare-skin hung on a nail by the door, the wind blowing 
the fur apart. . . . Where had she read of a hare hanging 
in a bitter wind with its fur blown ? . . . The tall trees 
that sheltered one side of the Castle bent in the wind, 
soughing eerily, and far down below Tweed ran in spate 
between its white banks. 

She shivered, partly with cold, and partly with the 
feeling of gloom that seemed to encircle her. The words 
of the unhappy queen that she had been reading to the 
children still rang in her ears: Would that I had died at 
J edhurgh. 

Mary the Queen had known the Borders and loved the 
silver voice of Tweed. Her slim feet had mounted those 
same worn steps that Hannie had run up and down so 
lightly.—What was it that she had overheard Easie say 
of NTannie in her days of health and lightness, ^^She wasna 
ower guid a yin.’’ And Mary? Erail and lovely, frail 
and lovely. . . . 

Up the steps she went into the brooding quiet of the 
old keep. The white-panelled room seemed more un¬ 
canny than ever in the half light as she stepped through 
it carrying her burden of flowers. Almost it seemed to 
her that she heard the whisper of a silk dress, the ghostly 
tap of high-heeled shoes, the sigh of a fan. ... If she 
stayed and peered into the shadows would she see the 
Queen and her four Maries sitting at their tapestry: 
twenty ells of red champit chamlet of silk, four ells white 
iaffety, three ells fine Hack velvet - 

The living-room, dim in high summer, would have 
been quite dark in the winter twilight had it not been lit 
by the flicker of the fire. 



260 


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The table was laid ready for tea; the brass candlesticks 
on the mantelpiece shone, everything was very tidy. 

Mrs. Tait sat by the fire, her hands idle in her lap. 

^Tt’s you,’’ she said, making a half effort to rise. 
‘^Come in to the fire, it’s cauld the day.” 

^^Yes,” said Kirsty, ^fit’s very cold to-day.” 

Mrs. Tait went on looking into the fire, and Kirsty 
sat in silence opposite to her. 

It was very still. Sometimes a branch of ivy tapped 
against the narrow window, sometimes a cinder fell on 
the hearth; through the silence ran the rushing sound 
of water far below. 

Suddenly Mrs. Tait rose. ^T’m gaun in to her, I canna 
bide to leave her lang. Will ye come ?” and Kirsty fol¬ 
lowed her through the door beside the fireplace to the 
little room beyond, where Kannie lay. She shrank back 
for a moment as the mother lifted the sheet from the 
dead face, but there was nothing to shock or alarm in the 
frozen peace that lay there—“a lily in a linen clout.” 

Kirsty sank doTO beside the bed, crying softly, while 
the mother stood straight and stern, looking, looking, as 
if she could never look her fill. 

Presently in a flat even voice she began to speak, never 
taking her eyes from her child’s face. 

^^Kannie and me ’greed awfu’ weel: we never flayt. 
Last nicht—it’s queer to think that it was only last nicht 
that she spoke to me, for it seems lang, lang since I heard 
her voice—she was sittin’ by the kitchen fire no nae waur 
ye would hae said, but aboot twal o’clock she got awfu’ 
restless and she said, T dinna ken what’s wrang wi’ me, 
Mither, I’m sae wearied.’ I kent by the look in her 
face that she was for off, and I said, ^Kannie, are ye gaun 
to leave yer mither f and she ga’ed me sic a look, as if 
she were seein’ me for the first time, and she said, T 


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251 


wish I had de’ed when I was a wee baim/ and turned 
her face to the wall.” 

Would that I had died at Jedburgh! 

Kirsty caught Mrs. Tait’s hand with a sob. After a 
minute she went on: 

got kinna frantic to see her look at me like that, an’ 
I cried, ^Hes yer mither ever failed ye, ma hinny?’ and 
she turned and lookit at me, juist as if she was sayin’ she 
was vexed she had ever hurt me, and she smiled, hut she 
never spoke again. . . . Ay weel, we’d better gang ben 
to the fire. Tait’ll be cornin’ in, puir man—^he’s been 
down at Priorsford seein’ aboot things, and he’ll need 
his tea.—Dinna greet, ma lassie.” 

But Kirsty wept sore, for, on the ^^drawershead” she 
saw standing ^Nannie’s little silver slippers. 


Chapter XXII 

“If the barricades went up in our streets and the 
poor became masters, I think the priests would escape, 

I fear the gentlemen would, but I believe the gutters 
would be simply running with the blood of philan¬ 
thropists.” 

G. K. Chesterton. 

T he next morning when the children had left the table 
(Miss Fanny was breakfasting in bed) Miss Carter 
did not follow them at once, bnt sat fingering a letter 
that had come for her by the morning’s post. 

Kirsty, looking np from her own correspondence, 
asked, ‘^Any special news, Carty?” 

have a letter from Rebecca Brand.” 

^^Oh!” Kirsty laid down the letter she was reading, 
nice letter, I hope?” 

“Well—a little curt, perhaps, but she’s handsome about 
Rob, and says what a good brother he has been.” She 
pushed the letter uncertainly towards Xirsty. “I don’t 
know whether you would care to read it.” 

“Ho, I’d better not. Rebecca isn’t one of those almost 
professional letter-writers who like their epistles to be 
circulated. I expect it cost her something to write, and 
remember, Carty, a little from her goes a long way. If 
she says, however curtly, that she will welcome you it 
means a lot.” 

“Oh, I know, and I think it’s very decent of her to 
write to me at all. Hadn’t I better go and see her ? I’m 
scared to death of her, really.” 

“You must go, of course,” Kirsty decreed, “but I think 
perhaps I had better have a talk to her first. In a wav 
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253 


I’m responsible for the whole thing. . . . I’ll go this very 
morning. Mr. Brand will he in his study: it’s a chance.” 

The news of her brother’s engagement had come to 
Rebecca as a complete surprise. She was not a suspicious 
creature and it had simply never occurred to her that 
there might be anything between her brother and Miss 
Carter. “And yet,” she told herself, bitterly, “I might 
have known. He was always hanging about Little Phan¬ 
tasy, and it’s just the sort of ridiculous thing that does 
happen. A minister with nothing but his stipend and a 
penniless governess! And the girl English and can know 
nothing about the Presbyterian kirk; young and sure to 
be flighty, probably never has attempted to keep house, 
and will race through the whole year’s income in a month.” 

In her heart she had no blame for the girl, she had liked 
anything she had seen of her, and Robert was a man and 
therefore could not be expected to be sensible; but against 
Kirsty Gilmour who, Rebecca shrewdly suspected, had 
made the match, her anger was hot. 

This morning Rebecca sat by the dining-room fire—a 
small fire depressed by a backing of dross—^mending 
household linen. That had to be done though the skies 
fell. 

She took a sheet, and held it up to the light revealing 
a worn patch in the middle. Taking up a large pair of 
scissors she cut the hem and tore the sheet up the middle. 
It meant overcasting the outer edges, and hemming the 
sides after the worn part had been cut away, and when 
it was finished it would be a poor mutilated thing, fit only 
for an emergency, “to keep a strait,” as Easie Orphoot 
would have said. 

As she sewed she reflected on her position: it seemed 
to her as dreary and futureless as the worn sheet. 

Robert had said, “Of course we shan’t be married for 


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ages, and anyway, your home is always at the Manse.” 
That was absurd. The Manse was no place for her when 
Robert brought a wife to it.—But what was she to do? 
That was the rub. 

‘Tf I was really fitted for anything,” Rebecca said to 
herself. ^Tf I could make dresses and trim hats really 
well—but IVe no head for dressmaking, I can only gorble 
away and mend. Of if I had a good business head and 
had learned typing and shorthand.” She gave the sheet 
a vicious tweak. ^T^d be no use as a companion, for I’m 
not tactful. . . . I’m a good worker in the house—that’s 
an idea; I might be a housemaid. It would be better to 
be a thoroughly competent housemaid, valued and con¬ 
sidered by a mistress, than a companion never quite sure 
what her position was, and always prepared to ooze out 
of sight in case she was in the way. I would be a little 
like Miss Wotherspoon at Little Phantasy, but I wouldn’t 
hang on to shreds of gentility by asking to be called 
^Miss.’ They might call me Brand or Rebecca just as 
they pleased.” 

She had just finished the middle seam, and was pre¬ 
paring to attack one of the sides, when the creak of the 
garden gate made her lift her head and listen. Presently 
the door-bell rang, and the small maid could be heard in 
easy conversation with some one. 

caller,” Rebecca said resignedly, hope I may be 
spared Lady Carruthers, for if she . . .” 

To what reckless lengths Rebecca might have gone if 
it had been that well-meaning woman will never be known, 
for it was Kirsty Gilmour that entered. 

The two women stood looking at each other for a mo¬ 
ment before anything was said in greeting. They made 
a striking contrast: Kirsty in soft golden brown with a 
great collar of beaver framing her face, Rebecca in her 
old brown jumper and shabby grey shirt, her straight 


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255 


mouse-coloured hair pulled firmly back from her round 
red face, the old sheet which she was mending trailing 
round her. The becomingness of Kirsty’s clothes did 
nothing to soften Kebecca’si feelings towards her. 

^^How d’you do,^^ she said. ^^Come near the fire; 
though,’’ she gave the big lump of coal a push with her 
foot as she spoke, ^^the poor thing is almost too discour¬ 
aged by dross to give much heat.” 

^^Oh, don’t touch it, please, it’s such a thrifty fire,” 
Kir sty said as she sat down near it. ^Tt would rejoice 
the heart of Miss Wotherspoon; she simply can’t bear to 
see coals burning away. . . . It’s a lovely morning for a 
walk, though it looks so cold.” 

She took a seat near Rebecca and they proceeded to 
make conversation. ^Ts Miss Fanny well?” Rebecca 
asked politely. 

^^Quite well, thank you. Of course she feels the cold.” 

^^Muirburn,” said Rebecca, ^fis very cold in winter.” 

‘^But so lovely.” 

“I’d rather,” said Rebecca, “live in a less lovely place 
and have a milder climate.” 

“Oh,” said Kirsty, “really,” and a silence fell which 
Kirsty broke, after a minute, with an anecdote about Bill. 

To Rebecca, sitting placidly sewing her long seam, and 
waiting to be told what had brought her visitor to the 
Manse at such an early hour, the situation was easy, but 
Kirsty was finding it hard. 

“We were so interested,” she burst out at last, “I mean 
I was so very glad when Stella Carter told me the great 
news.” 

She stopped. 

Rebecca tore off a long strip of worn sheet and bent 
down to recapture the reel of cotton which had rolled un¬ 
der her chair. 

“I do hope,” Kir sty went on rather falteringly, “I do 


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hope they will he very happy, for I feel in a way respon¬ 
sible. If I hadn’t come to Little Phantasy they would 
never have met.” 

Rebecca snipped a thread. ^^You must feel quite a 
Providence,” she said pleasantly. 

Kir sty flushed. ‘Well—I confess I did hope this 
would happen: it seemed so suitable somehow.” 

“Why suitable?” 

“Oh, because they are both nice, so sincere, and keen 
about the same things—and then poor Carty hasn’t got 
much of a home, and it is so delightful to think of her 
settled in Muirburn.” 

“And you didn’t consider that settling her in Muirburn 
meant turning me out.” 

“NTo,” Kirsty admitted, her voice drooping, “I never 
thought of that.” 

“That’s the worst of you sentimental people, you never 
think—^you only feel.” Rebecca was sewing so fiercely 
that her thread snapped. She threaded her needle as she 
continued. . “I’ve suffered all my life from sentiment. 
I always cared for music and might have played really 
well if I’d had a chance, but my music-teacher was chosen 
for me by my parents because she had a sad love affair 
and it was thought that it would give her an interest in 
life to teach music: she had no qualifications whatever 
for the job. Your great idea is to have every one pleased 
and happy around you so that you may feel pleased and 
happy. It’s a form of selfishness.” 

“You never liked me,” said Kirsty. 

“Is it necessary that every one should like you?” 

Kirsty winced at the tone. “Of course not,” she said 
quickly, “only—did I ever do anything to hurt you ? If I 
did I never meant to.” 

Rebecca sewed diligently for a minute, her eyes on the 
seam, then she said, “You’re not the sort of person who 


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257 


would ever mean to hurt any one. You would always 
want to shower gifts on people and he kind to them and 
pet them, but did you ever think how irritating unwanted 
kindness can be to the recipient? Did you ever think 
how much more grace it requires to he a receiver than a 
giver? From the first I could feel you saying to your¬ 
self, ‘Oh, the poor little plain good thing! I must be 
kind to her and try to brighten life for her a little.^—You 
thought because I was dumpy and had a red face and 
uninteresting hair that I must want brightening. And 
you talked away about how you loved living in a homely, 
simple way, trying to put yourself on a level with me, 
and raved over servants and housekeeping details as if it 
were some new game invented for your special amuse¬ 
ment. What do you know about keeping a house ? Have 
you ever got up on winter mornings and lit fires and 
washed front doorsteps ? Do you know what it is to wash 
dishes and scrape pots until your hands seem to smell of 
dishcloths, and you can’t keep decently tidy, and life is 
one long preparing of meals and clearing them away? 
You said hotel life was so sickening, so unhomelike . . 

“Oh,” cried Kirsty, stricken, “what an affected idiot 
you must have thought me.” 

“At first I did,” Kebecca owned. “Then I saw that it 
wasn’t affectation, that you really were enjoying what I 
thought you were only pretending to enjoy, that you were 
like a child playing at ‘houses.’—Oh, but I needn’t pre¬ 
tend—what annoyed me was just the difference between 
us. You had everything I hadn’t. I never knew how 
plain I was till I saw you. And your clothes! I’ve al¬ 
ways longed for good clothes, but you can see for yourself 
I’ve no notion of how to dress. Other women can make 
pretty things out of little, but I’m at the mercy of a fifth- 
rate dressmaker, so that I haven’t even the chance to 
look as decent as I might. You have perfect clothes for 


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every occasion, so you can’t begin to understand how sick 
one gets of wearing a tweed coat and skirt day in and day 
out; and every one turned to you and liked you and ad¬ 
mired you, and I was nowhere. ISTot that I ever was any¬ 
where, but that didn’t make it any easier.” 

Eebecca bent her head over the sheet and sewed as for 
a wager, while Kirsty sat like a penitent on a stool, the 
picture of abject misery. 

^^And now I’m losing Rob. It’s a long time since we 
were children together and we’ve always been great 
friends. I don’t want to grumble about him marrying; 
it’s right and it’s natural, and I haven’t a word to say. 
I’ve tried to be decent to him about it, though, mind you, 
I think he has made a foolish choice. I know nothing 
against the girl, but she’s young, and she’s English, and 
not likely to know much about housekeeping, and as for 

managing a kirk-! I’m not much good myself, for 

I haven’t a taking way, but anyway I can understand the 
people.” 

^^Couldn’t you help her ?” Kirsty asked timidly. 

^^Me ? I won’t be there to help. When Rob brings his 
wife to the Manse I walk out. I’m thinking of taking a 
^place’ as a housemaid.” 

Kirsty moaned. 

^^Why not ? I wouldn’t have to work as hard as I work 
now.” She stopped, and then said cruelly, ''I’ll be like 
your Miss Wotherspoon.” 

Kirsty rose to her feet. "I’m going,” she said. "I 
suppose it’s not much good asking you to forgive me ? I 
seem to have done nothing but hurt you all the time.” 

"As to that,” Rebecca said, sticking the needle into her 
seam and rising, "I ought to apologise to you for my 
rudeness.” 

"You were honest, anyway, and that’s something. 



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259 


don’t rise. I’ll let myself out. Good-moming.” 

Eebecca sat still after the door closed behind Kirsty, 
feeling more than a little ashamed of herself. 

^^Was I honest?” she asked herself, doubt it. . . . 
But I was very rude. It’s a great mistake to let one¬ 
self go.” 

Hear Little Phantasy Kirsty met Merren Strang, who 
proceeded to walk home with her. 

^Well met! I would accept an invitation to luncheon 
if you thought of giving me one. I couldn’t work this 
morning. I never can work when the sun shines ; I 
wanted a trudge in the snow. ... You don’t look very 
bright, my friend. Anything troubling you ?” 

^^Lots,” said Kirsty. ^L’ve just been hearing the truth 
about myself.” 

^^That should have been interesting, but it seems to 
have depressed you. . . . I’m in great spirits myself this 
morning. I’ve just got news of a legacy—an utterly un¬ 
expected one from the widow of an uncle. I was hardly 
sorry at all when I heard she was dead, for I hadn’t seen 
her for years, but I wish now I had grieved a little. But 
I rather think she left it not from any feeling of affection 
for me, but from a feeling of loyalty to her dead husband 
who was fond of me as a child. Anyway the legacy is 
quite considerable. D’you know what I’m going to do 
with some of it ? I’m going to Italy.” 

^When?” Kirsty asked. 

^^Immediately after Christmas. I arranged it all with 
myself this morning when I heard from the lawyer— 
Italy first, Kome—oh, glorious! Then other places— 
Sicily, perhaps—sunshine, flowers. ...” 

^^Oh,” Kirsty shouted suddenly, ^^will you take Rebecca 
Brand with you ?” 


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Merren Strang stood still in tlie snow and stared. 

^‘What in the world would I do with Kebecca Brand in 
Italy? Do talk sense, Kirsty.’^ 

Kir sty grabbed her arm. ^Wait till I tell you.—^Kob 
Brand has got engaged to Carty and Kebecca says she 
will be a housemaid like Miss Wotherspoon, and somehow 
or other it seems to be all my blame. I’m perfectly miser- 
able. Merren, couldn’t you say you wanted a companion 
and ask her to go with you ? You would need to be very 
humble about it because she is hurt in her feelings and 
suspicious of every one. ... If you could make her feel 
you need her-” 

^^But I don’t,” Merren interrupted. 

Kirsty gave an exasperated stamp. ‘^Oh, but couldn’t 
you try to need her, seeing how serious it is and all my 
fault in a way ?” 

^^But what is your fault ?” 

^^Well,” said Kirsty, ^^it isn’t really, because if they 
hadn’t been prepared to fall in love with each other noth¬ 
ing I could have done would have made them. But I did 
think it would be nice to have Carty settled here and I did 
give them every opportunity to meet, and I did forget all 
about Rebecca. . . . And a trip to Italy would be such 
a treat to her. She has been nowhere, poor Rebecca. 
...” Kirsty stopped short remembering Rebecca’s own 
words about the ^^poor plain good little thing. . . .” 
^^And I do think you would enjoy having her. It would 
be so amusing to show her things. Of course I would pay 
for everything, but she wouldn’t need to know that. If 
she got a hint of such an arrangement her pride would be 
up in arms. Everything must seem to come from you.— 
Do you think that is an underhand way to do things ? It’s 
all very difficult, but do, do, help me to give Rebecca one 
good time in her life.” 

Kirsty was so urgent and so distressed that before 



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261 


Little Phantasy was reached Merren Strang had con¬ 
sented to go meekly to the Manse and heg for Rebecca’s 
companionship on her trip. 

But she sighed as she said, ^‘Your living for others, my 
dear, makes life very difficult for your friends. There’s 
nothing I enjoy so much as going about alone, following 
my own free will, and Rebecca I know, will gloom dis¬ 
approvingly at the pictures, and in Rome she will say 
rude things about the Pope. She is just like the Edin¬ 
burgh man who said to the two devout Catholic ladies 
who offered to pray for him, T’ll thank you not to men¬ 
tion me by name to the Virgin Mary.’—Well, well, so 
this is all my legacy has brought me! Let me go in and 
have a talk to Bill, and let some of Aunt Eanny’s serenity 
slide into my soul. I often wish I had, as she has, a 
refuge of shawls from this bleak world.” 


Chapter XXIII 

‘TTou promise heavens free from strife. 

Pure truth and perfect change of will; 

But sweet, sweet is this human life, 

So sweet, I fain would breathe it still; 

Your chilly stars I can forgo. 

This warm kind world is all I know.” 

William Cory. 

T ATER, when Mrs. Strang had been warmed and fed, 
■Li and had somewhat recovered from the shock of 
Kirsty’s proposal, she remembered what had brought her 
to Little Phantasy. 

knew there was something,’’ she said. knew I 
hadn’t just arrived aimlessly to beg a meal. Meeting 
you on the road, Kirsty, put everything out of my head. 
jN^ow, listen. Which of you will come with me to-night 
to Priorsford to a concert ?” 

She looked round the table as she spoke, then ad¬ 
dressed Miss Fanny. ^'Won’t you come ?” 

Oh, my dear Mrs. Strang!” Miss Fanny retreated 
into her shawls at the very suggestion. never go out 
in the evenings—at least very rarely; and the long drive 
in the snow, and the draughty hall and the dark. 

Thank you very much for thinking of me, but I really 
could not.” 

‘Tt won’t be dark,” Mrs. Strang pointed out unfeel¬ 
ingly. ^^There’s a moon.” 

'^Oh, a moon!” Miss Fanny’s tone seemed to convey 
that she thought poorly of the moon. ''N'o—please 
don t think me ungrateful but I would be much happier 
at home.” ^ 


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263 


Merren patted lier hand soothingly. ‘^N'o, I didn^t 
really expect that you would go out at night. But some¬ 
body must come. IVe ordered a closed car and if that 
isn’t luxury I don’t know what is. Kirsty, you don’t 
seem to jump at my invitation. ^N"o/ is written all over 
your speaking countenance.” 

^^It would he lovely,” Kirsty began, but was immedi¬ 
ately interrupted. 

know that beginning. ^It would be lovely, 

but-’ It is too discouraging to try to give people 

pleasure and have the wretched people with one accord 
begin to make excuses. What were you going to say, 
Kirsty ? T have married a wife and therefore cannot 
come/ or something equally likely.” 

Kirsty laughed. ^^It’s very rude, I know, and cer¬ 
tainly not the way to treat an invitation, but I was so 
looking forward to an evening by the fire.—That sounds 
as if I dined and danced every night of my life instead 
of—oh, yes, Merren, I’ll come. I’m getting to be an 
oyster; it will do me good.” 

‘^Ko, I don’t want you. I hate to do people good. I 
tell you what, Barbara and Specky will come and 

if Carty wouldn’t find it too much of a bore-” She 

looked at Miss Carter who replied with fervour: 

‘T would like it above everything; a concert is always 
a treat to me.” And there was no doubt about the joyful 
acceptance of Barbara and Specky. 

‘Well, that’s settled. Come to Hopewaterfoot about 
six and we’ll have a tea-dinner before we start, a solid 
meal, and then you’ll only need a hot drink when you 
come in.” 

The two children were almost speechless with delight 
and found a vent to their solemn joy by rubbing their 
foreheads like two friendly ponies, while Bill stared 
fixedly at the table-cloth. Kirsty knew that he was on 




264 


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the point of crying, a humiliation which would have 
vexed his proud soul, and without looking at him she slid 
her hand over his small, clenched fist and said: 

^^What a splendid plan! And when we get rid of 
them all, Bill, I want you to help me open the big box 
that came this morning.’’ She turned to Miss Fanny. 

thought I would order the Christmas toys for the 
school children in good time, and we must see what they 
are like, and if any are broken. . . . Bill, d’you think 
you could find a hammer and chisel so that we’ll be quite 
ready to open it whenever they go away?” 

Bill nodded. ^Tn the kitchen table drawer.” He 
slipped from the table, mightily important, to see about 
it at once. 

Specky looked rather regretfully at the retreating form 
of his brother. ^^I’d like to help Bill open the box,” he 
said. ^‘1 don’t think he knows quite how to work a chisel 
and he might hammer his fingers. I don’t want to stay 
at home, for I do want to see Tweed in the dark, but I 
like opening boxes, too. Couldn’t we open the box be¬ 
fore we go away. Pie ?” 

‘T’m afraid not,” Kirsty said gravely. ‘^That’s Bill’s 
treat and you are having yours.—Carty, you would need 
a very early tea to be ready for supper at six. Shall we 
say tea at three-thirty? Children, you hear? Be in 
shortly after three, and we shall have time for our reading 
before we need get ready. What are you going to do now ? 
Toboggan? Well, don’t be rash, darlings. I’ll be out 
to look at you in a little. Dear me, this is a terribly busy 
day. . . . Come along, Merren, to the drawing-room 
fire.” 

Mrs. Strang stood up and began to prepare to depart. 

^^Don’t tempt me, girl, with drawing-room fires— 
where did I leave my coat ?—I must get home and put in 
some grim work at the book I’m finishing. I only 


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265 


realised this morning that I had mislaid one of the char¬ 
acters entirely.” 

Kirsty looked sympathetic. ^‘Is it going to he good?” 
she asked. 

^Ut is not,” said the author shortly. ^^And IVe taken 
such a dislike to my heroine that I thwart her at every 
turn. She is a well-meaning creature hut she takes after 
Bunyan’s creation, ^the deplorable young woman named 
Dull.’ I’m hound to get it done before I go off on my 
jaunt—^but that’s largely spoilt for me too, thanks to you. 
As I said before the vicarious kindness of one’s friends is 
a great nuisance. And who acquires merit by it I should 
like to know ? You, I suppose. Yes, you may well look 
penitent-” 

Some hours later Miss Fanny and her niece sat reading 
by the fire. The chintz curtains were drawn across the 
wide low windows—a reading-lamp stood on the table by 
Miss Fanny’s side, another stood near Kirsty’s chair, and 
two tall standard lamps helped to make a bright glow 
round the hearth; the corners of the room were in shadow. 

Miss Fanny laid down her book, looked at Kirsty’s 
absorbed face, and sighed deeply. 

Kirsty heard her sigh and lifted her head. 

^^Tired, Aunt Fanny? N’o? Merely bored then?” 

^^What are you reading, dear?” Miss Fanny asked 
in her gentle voice. 

Kirsty lifted a little book bound in red leather and held 
it up for her aunt to see. 

^^One of my favourite stories —The Children of the 
Zodiac. I don’t know whether you care much for 
Kipling ?” 

‘^Kot much, dear; such a swearing sort of writer, ex¬ 
cept for The Recessional, which, of course, is very 
nice.” 



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There is no swearing in this story. It’s about the 
Children of the Zodiac—Leo and the Girl, the Bull, the 
Twins—^who were gods and became mortal. When they 
first realised that some day death would come for them 
Leo and the Girl sat down in despair, then they looked at 
the people round them who did not know what day they 
would die, yet laughed and were cheerful till, for shame’s 
sake, they had to learn to laugh too. And the story goes 
on. Aunt Fanny, that the two went about singing among 
the country people and collecting pence for their daily 
bread. They sang that whatever came or did not come 
the children of men must not be afraid. It was heavy 
teaching at first, but as the years went on Leo discovered 
that he could make men laugh and hold them listening 
even when the rain fell. But sometimes they got very 
tired and Leo would say, ^Let us stop singing and making 
jokes,’ but the Girl said ^jNo.’ And other singers sprang 
up and Leo hated them for dividing the applause and 
sometimes Leo’s songs would be broken and the jokes fall 
fiat, and the children would shout, ^Go home, and learn 
something worth singing.’ ” 

Kirsty fell silent, and after a minute Miss Fanny asked 
what happened to Leo and the Girl. 

^^The Girl died, and as she was dying Leo cried in bit¬ 
terness, ^Surely we were gods once.’ ” 

'''Surely we are gods still,’ said the Girl, . . but 
we’ve forgotten what we were singing for—we sang for 
pence, and oh! we fought for them—^we who are the 
Children of the Zodiac.’ And the Girl died, and Leo, 
remembering her, sang more beautiful songs than ever he 
had done, and did not forget that he was a god—though 
he had to die. . . . Don’t you think it’s a beautiful 
story, Aunt Fanny?” 

"Yes,” doubtfully, "I suppose it is, but very fanciful.—^ 
Are you afraid of death, Kirsty ?” 


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267 


hard to say,” Kirsty said, surprised at the ques¬ 
tion. 

‘The Ways of Death are soothing and serene, 

And all the words of Death are grave and sweet . . 

so the poet says.” 

^^That’s nonsense,” said Miss Eanny, sitting up ana 
becoming unexpectedly definite. ^^It’s poetry, of course, 
and poets say anything so long as it sounds pretty. I 
ought to be ashamed to say it, but Death seems to me a 
terrible thing. I fight against the feeling. I read little 
books about Heaven, and hymns, but I don’t seem to get 
much comfort from them. When the sun shines and I 
feel very well, and cheerful people are round me, I seem 
to have a firmer faith, but at night when I am alone and 
not sleeping and remember that in four years I’ll be 
seventy. . . . To be nearly at the end of the span and to 
be so unwilling to leave this world. You said, Kirsty— 
you know you did—^that it was a stumbling-block to you 
to see how little the good people wanted to leave this life 
for the life everlasting, but I can’t help it. I shrink 
from such a step in the dark. Perhaps it’s because I’ve 
always been so comfortable all my life, fires in my bed¬ 
room, and fur-lined slippers, and shawls . . . and the 
Kiver will be so cold ...” 

She ended on a frightened sob and in a second Kirsty 
was kneeling beside her, stroking her hand, comforting 
her as if she had been a frightened child. 

^^Dear Aunt Fanny—poor darling. Why should you 
of all people worry yourself ? I am sure you have hardly 
ever had a hard thought of any one, much less done any 
one harm.” 

But Miss Fanny refused this comfort, pushing Kirsty 
away with one hand while she wiped her eyes with the 
other. 


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don’t say IVe done much active harm, but I some¬ 
times think I have lived too much to myself, that I haven’t 
troubled myself enough about other people, although I 
always did give quite a lot to Missions and had the work- 
party in my own drawing-room every week at Harelaw. 
But all our righteousness is as filthy rags and it won’t 
help at the last. . . . I’ve always been timid, afraid of 
so many things—burglars and mice and thunder, and I 
never could bear to go anywhere alone, I always took a 
maid with me, and to set off at last alone ...” 

Kirsty had a vision of Aunt Fanny’s soul, very small 
and shrunken, no shawls to comfort, no maid to lean on, 
setting off in the cold and dark, and her arms tightened 
round the poor lady. 

^^Oh, Kirsty, I fear I’ll never see the Celestial City.” 

'‘Dear heart,” said Kirsty, "you would be sadly out of 
place anywhere else. . . . Why, darling, leaving the body 
is just like leaving an old garment one doesn’t want any 
more.” 

"Yes, yes. I know that, but somehow I don’t believe 
it. There’s the River to cross.” 

"But there is no real river: it’s just a beautiful 
imagining; and don’t you remember how Much Afraid 
who dreaded everything went through the water singing 
—though none knew what she said.” 

"You get comfort from poetry,” said Miss Fanny, 'T 
never could.” 

Kirsty laughed a little. "But you like your religious 
little books. Aunt Fanny, so we each have something. 
... It may be an incurable lightness in my nature, but 
I can’t say I ever worry much about death. I just trust 
to be given strength to behave decently when my time 
comes. It’s amazing, I think, how philosophically we all 
take it when it comes to the end, for we never really be¬ 
lieve that death will come to ourselves. Like Bill when 


PINK SUGAR 269 

I said we would do something next year if we were all 
spared. 

^Perhaps you’ll he dead/ he said calmly. 

‘Perhaps you will/ I retorted. 

“Oh, no, Pm always spared,” said Bill. 

“. . . Aunt Panny, did you ever read (no, this isn’t 
poetry) a letter written by Lewis Carrol to the children 
who loved Alice. He describes a child wakening from 
a frightening dream, to find a mother’s hand drawing 
aside the curtains and letting in the sunshine of a spring 
morning, and he goes on to say that death is like that, a 
morning when God’s hand shall draw aside the curtains 
and we shall see the Sun of Righteousness. That is all 
it is, just sleeping to wake where everything that fright¬ 
ened and vexed us will be finished with. . . . And here 
comes Miss Wotherspoon with the kettle and the sponge¬ 
cakes.” 

As they sat sipping hot water Kirsty smiled at her aunt 
and said: 

“Aren’t we blest beyond compare? To have a house 
full of life and peace (I don’t mean stagnant quiet but 
peace in the real sense) and beautiful things. Age and 
youth and middling ones like Carty and me, it all makes 
for happiness and completeness. You are happy here. 
Aunt Fanny? Say you are.” 

“Oh, yes,” Miss Fanny sighed as if it were almost 
wrong to admit to happiness. “You keep house very com¬ 
fortably, my dear, and the children are sometimes a pleas¬ 
ure—even Bill.” 

“Oh,” Kirsty cried, “did you ever know anything so 
delightful as Bill to-night ? Trotting about so earnestly, 
struggling with hammer and chisel, and little paddy- 
paws to open the big box. A busy child is always a good 
child. In fact, I’m beginning to think that the only re¬ 
liable prescription for happiness is to havQ lots to do.” 


270 


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Kirsty munched her sponge-cake contentedly, and 
nodded at her aunt. hope you and I will sit here like 
this a long time o’ nights.” 

^^Ah, my dear, I hope you will have a better companion 
than a dull old woman, and I can’t expect it to he very 
long at the longest. NTo Gilmour ever lives much past 
seventy.” 

‘Dull old woman’!” Kirsty scoffed. “I tell you what, 
if you go on suggesting to yourself that you’ll die at sev¬ 
enty, you’ll do it. It’s an uncanny thing, the power of 
suggestion. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t live to 
be ninety, especially now that you’ve begun to have 
sponge-cakes and hot water! You take such good care of 
your health that you’ll likely he going strong when I’m 
either dead or a withered old dotard at fifty.—Oh, I had 
forgotten. I was lent such a nice little hook to-day. It 
belongs to Merren Strang and she loves it—a hook of 
religious poems by B. M. I’ve just glanced at them, they 
look lovely. Merren thought you might like to see them.”* 
She took from the table a small book hound in dark 
green and gold, and turned over the leaves for a few min¬ 
utes, till she found what she wanted. “This now. 
Doesn’t it say something to you, even if it is poetry ? It 
is called The Desire to Depart. 

'^And thus our hearts appeal to them 
When we behold our dearest rise 
And look towards Jerusalem 
With strangely kindling eyes. 

Tor ah! the Master is so fair, 

His smile so sweet to banished men 
That they who meet it unawares 
Can never rest on earth again. 

And they who see Him risen far, 

At God’s right hand to welcome them. 


PINK SUGAR 


271 


Forgetful stand of home and land. 

Desiring fair Jerusalem.” 

Miss Fanny sat forward in her chair. 

^My dear, let me see that book. I used to know it so 
well. B. M. is Barbara Miller.—I haven’t seen it for 
years, indeed I had forgotten all about it. Yes, this is 
the same book. Dear me, the very look of it brings so 
much back to me. ...” She gloated over it for a little 
and then, ^^Let me take it up to my room,” she begged, 
^^those are sweet words. . . . I’m sure I wish it could 
be said of me that I desired fair Jerusalem!” She gave a 
small rueful smile, and Kirsty hugged her. 

certainly don’t want you to rise with ^strangely 
kindling eyes’ and leave us. We can’t do without you, 
my dear.—^How, are you going to sit up for these merry 
wanderers of the night, or will you go to bed now ?” 

^Well, dear, if you don’t mind sitting up alone. . . . 
I’m rather tired.” 

^^Of course not. Let me help you with your shawls. 
Yes, I’m coming up to see if your fire is good and every¬ 
thing cosy.” 

Kirsty picked up various trifles, a gold-mounted 
magnifying glass, a bottle of smelling-salts, a small de¬ 
votional book or two and said: 

^^D’you know I was rather badly depressed this morn¬ 
ing after hearing some home-truths about myself from 
Eebecca Brand, and didn’t see much light in life. Then 
I met Merren Strang and she seemed to cheer things up 
wonderfully, and it has been such a happy evening with 
Bill and the toys, and this peaceful time talking to you.” 

^'Well, I don’t know what right Kebecca Brand has to 
tell you home-truths,” Miss Fanny said resentfully, ^^but 
I do know,” here the voice softened, ^^that you are a 
great comfort to me. I don’t know how I ever managed 
without you.” 


Chapter XXIV 

“What would you, ladies? It was ever thus. Men 
are unwise and curiously planned.” 

James Elroy Flecker. 

I T is possible to go to bed filled with noble thoughts, 
and a tender tolerance to all humanity, and a not en¬ 
tirely dissatisfied feeling about one’s own conduct, and 
to waken feeling more or less at war with the whole world. 
After hearing a full account of the wonderful concert, 
and the even more wonderful drive by Tweed in the snow 
and moonlight, from the two excited children, having 
stayed them with sponge-cakes and comforted them with 
hot cocoa, and seen them warmly tucked up in bed, Kirsty 
had gone to her own room, her heart within her like a 
singing bird. To be needed by some one was the breath 
of life to her, and here she was the centre of a warm, 
snug home, here was a household of old and young de¬ 
pending on her.—She fell asleep with her mouth curved 
in a smile. 

She woke, struggling out of an unpleasant dream, and 
looked at her watch. Seven o’clock. It wasn’t worth 
while snuggling down again for her tea would be coming 
in half an hour, so she lay and thought of her absurd 
dream. She had been in a large and crowded church 
where a wedding was about to take place, her own, it 
seemed, but she was most unsuitably attired in a tweed 
skirt and a Shetland jumper. She had begged plaintively 
for a veil, and some one had torn a sheet from The Scots¬ 
man and handed it to her and she had pinned it on, know¬ 
ing it was entirely the wrong thing, but, with the terrible 
272 


PINK SUGAR 


273 


impotence which oppresses one in dreams, unable to help 
herself. NTor could she see the bridegroom anywhere. 
As she wandered through the church she had met Mrs. 
Norman M’Candlish and asked her if she knew anything 
about him and that lady had replied in her primmest ac¬ 
cents, believe he belongs to the far north.” (Kirsty 
lay and laughed to herself as the absurdity of the dream 
struck her.) Finally she had seen him—a small timid 
man with side-whiskers and a slight pink rash on each 
high cheek-hone, and immediately he faded away, with 
the church and the people, and only the voice of the Rev. 
Norman M’Candlish remained, asking pathetically if 
Kirsty would lend him a shilling as he was tired of sell¬ 
ing rhubarb. 

As Kirsty thought over her dream she became aware 
that she had caught a cold, and that her head felt foggy 
and heavy. All the pleasantness and comfort that had 
filled her being the night before seemed to have vanished. 
Now she could only remember that Rebecca Brand dis¬ 
liked her and thought that she had done her an ill turn. 
Also, any day, she might get a letter saying that Alan 
Crawford was on his way home, and then there was hound 
to he a crisis of some sort. 

She sat up and lit the lamp that stood on the table by 
her bed, and in doing so held the match too long and 
burned her fingers, and then, letting it fall hurriedly, 
burnt a small hole in the sheet. Lamps, she concluded, 
were a nuisance. 

It was very cold, the tip of her nose felt quite frozen; 
she pulled the covers over her and lay and looked out of 
the window. It was beginning to get light, and she could 
just make out the bridge that marked the meeting of 
Tweed and the Hope Water. There was a light in one 
of the narrow windows of the old Castle. John Tait 
would be getting his breakfast and going out to his work. 


274 


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decent man, leaving his wife to her lonely days, for now 
she scrubbed floors with an empty heart. Well, ISTannie 
was away from it all, away from the hard work and the 
small pleasures, away from the bitter winter mornings 
and the long light summer nights. She would never feel 
dissatisfied again. 

^^She’s not missing much,” Kirsty thought, morosely, 
^^for half the time one’s alive one’s making a fool of one¬ 
self. I’m sure Miss Wotherspoon’s late this morning. 
I don’t know why I lie here and expect her to bring me 
tea. She’s probably a Socialist and loathes me for the 
trouble I give her . . She yawned and wondered how 
it was that even in snow Ratchell Hill had such a worn, 
scarred look. 

A tap at the door. 

Tea. 

Kirsty pulled a soft Shetland wool jacket over her 
shoulders. 

^^Oh, thanh you. Miss Wotherspoon,” she said grate¬ 
fully, remembering that she had no right to lie in bed and 
drink tea while older women (probably with headaches) 
got the house warm and comfortable for her. 

Miss Wotherspoon, with a firm hand, pulled down the 
blinds to the very foot, to remind her mistress that the 
lamp was exposing her to the gaze of the public. 

“Nobody could see me but a sheep on the Eatchell 
Hill, Kirsty pointed out, but Miss Wotherspoon 
pimmed her lips and said that to her way of thinking 
it was a very daft-like thing, indecent, too, to lie in bed 
with a light and the blinds up. 

Kirsty tied the broad blue satin ribbons of her dress¬ 
ing-jacket and looked thoughtfully at the white tray with 
its fragile blue and white china, got to match the blue 
and white room. Eebecca Brand had put many things in 
a new light. Hitherto Kirsty had taken it more or less 


PINK SUGAR 


275 

for granted that every one lay in bed till morning tea 
was brought to them, and then went into a well-warmed 
bath-room smelling of the best kinds of bath salts, and 
bathed and dressed at leisure. N^ow she had a picture in 
her mind of the austere little Manse, with its one small 
shiftless maid-servant, and Rebecca rising at all hours to 
sweep and dust. N'o wonder, thought Kirsty, that Re¬ 
becca felt soured when she looked at her. Some people 
were so constituted that they liked hard work, liked noth¬ 
ing better than to rise early in the morning and rush 
about putting things straight, but Rebecca was not one 
of them. She had hankerings after luxury; without a 
glimmering of knowledge how to dress she loved beautiful 
clothes. Well, Kirsty thought, she would see to it that 
now Rebecca had some colour in her life. As she rose 
and put on her dressing-gown she smiled to think that if 
she went on collecting people and providing for them at 
the rate she was doing the fortune her father had left her 
would cease soon to be a burden, and the thought cheered 
her and made her forget her cold. 

The post arrived early at Little Phantasy, and, as 
Kirsty was generally down first, she often had read her 
letters before the others put in an appearance. 

This morning there was quite a pile by her place, not 
bills or circulars, real letters, thick, addressed in interest¬ 
ing writing. 

She turned them over with a pleased smile: they were 
from old friends, welcome letters but not exciting. The 
last one she took up made her heart beat with heavy 
thuds. It was from Alan Crawford, the letter she had 
dreaded. 

There had been no letters for some little time, which 
had made her fear that he was on his way home, but—she 
tried to reassure herself—this might be a reprieve: it 
might be saying that he had decided to winter abroad. 


276 


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She tore it open and tried to read it at one gulp, to get 
the meaning with a glance. 

The first page was merely thanks for her letter and 
snapshots and compliments about the children’s improved 
looks. She turned that over impatiently. What was all 
this about a fellow-voyager, also bereaved—comforted 
each other—a mother’s care— what! 

She felt as if her heart had turned to ice within her, 
but Stella Carter had come into the room followed by the 
children with their shining morning faces, and she had to 
greet them, and stroke their heads as if they were ponies 
(the two boys strongly objected to kissing), and admire 
Bill’s new stockings, and laugh and be gay as they had 
always seen her. 

^^Kedgeree,” said Specky, who liked his meals. 
^‘Good!” 

^^Are you sure there are no egg-shells in it Bill asked, 
having a horror of finding even the minutest fragment 
of shell in his food. ^^Try it with your fork. Pie.” So 
Kirsty pounded it with her fork until he was satisfied. 

^^T^en I was a little girl,” Miss Fanny told him, got 
nothing to breakfast on week-days but porridge, and some 
thick bread and butter. Only on Sabbath morning we 
got ham and eggs, and only on Sabbath afternoon we got 
cake for tea. N^othing is a treat to you children.” 

^^Yes,” Barbara corrected her, ‘^toasted cheese. Aunt 
Fanny. Easie gave it us once, and it was lovely. When 
I’m grown up I shall have it for tea every afternoon.” 

Kirsty’s eyes strayed back to the letter. She had made 
no mistake. Her eyes had not played her false. There 
it was in his beautiful clear small writing. He had met 
a lady who, he felt, would be a mother to his poor children. 
They were coming home in the same ship, and would be 
married quietly in London on the 15 th, and a few days 
later would come for the children. 


PINK SUGAR 


277 


There was much more. Profuse thanks for her good¬ 
ness, promises of life-long gratitude from himself and the 
children; some details about the lady who was to be his 
wife. She was a widow, it appeared, Scots, and had a 
place in Perthshire. 

Kirsty merely glanced impatiently at what was written. 
All that mattered was that in a week the children would 
be gone. 

It was a still, intensely cold morning. The sun was 
shining on the Hope Water, and on the yellow chrysan¬ 
themums in the yellow bowl in the middle of the table. 
Bill was wearing a yellow jersey, and with his gilt head 
looked rather like a canary’s. There was an air of jollity 
about the whole party. Even Miss Fanny greeted the 
sun with a pleased blink of her eyes, and Miss Carter’s 
mouth turned up all the time in a happy smile. 

Kirsty sat at the head of the table, and made a pretence 
of eating, and listened and laughed and made plans for 
the day, and, after what seemed hours, the children ran 
out and she and Stella Carter followed Miss Fanny into 
the drawing-room. 

^^Any news this morning?” Miss Fanny asked, settling 
herself placidly into her chair. 

Kirsty knelt down before the fire. 

^^Yes,” she said, ^^somewhat startling news this morn¬ 
ing—don’t go, Carty, please. It concerns you a lot. . . . 
I have a letter from Mr. Crawford telling me that he is 
coming here in about a week’s time with a new wife”— 
she stopped for a second, and then went on in a hard 
clear voice—^^to take the children away.” 

There was no comment from either of her hearers, and 
she continued: ^Tt sounds rathe-f an ideal arrangement. 
The lady, evidently wealthy, has lost her husband, and is 
childless. I expect their loneliness drew them together.— 
Quite a romance, isn’t it. Aunt Fanny?” 


278 


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suppose so.’’ Miss Fanny’s voice sounded un¬ 
certain. ^^Meeting on board ship like that.—I wonder i£ 
he knew much about her. I do hope she will be good to 
the children.” 

^^Ob, dear, yes,” Kirsty said lightly, springing to her 
feet. ^Well, Carty, later on you and I must have a tre¬ 
mendous discussion about things. . . . Perhaps you had 
better say nothing to the children in the meantime. It’s 
a sudden up-rooting, hut as Easie often says, ^Changes are 
lichtsome.’ ” 

She turned away with a laugh, hut Miss Carter went 
out of the room with tears in her eyes. 

^^I’m not going to think,” Kirsty told herself, as she 
went upstairs. ^^I must keep myself occupied every min¬ 
ute of the day.” So she did every small disagreeable task 
that she had been putting off to a convenient season, wrote 
letters to people she had neglected, tied up magazines to 
send to a hospital, and (a job that always irritated her) 
sent postal orders for fiddling little hills. So the morning 
passed, and at luncheon she told the children so many 
ridiculous stories, and laughed so much that Miss Fanny 
thought to herself, half pleased, half disappointed: 

Kirsty seems actually glad that the children are going 
away, and I was sure she would he broken-hearted. It’s 
just as well, of course, hut I thought she had deeper feel¬ 
ings.” 

^ ''Are you^ going out, Kirsty ?” she asked later, as her 
niece came into the room with her out-of-door things on 
"Isn’t it very cold?” 

'Yes, hut it’s a fine day for a walk. I was thinking I 
had better call on those new people who have taken Car¬ 
ton Place. Something-Thomson, they’re called, I can’t 
remember what. Merren Strang says they are appali- 
dull, hut that’s all the more reason why they should 
he called on.” 


PINK SUGAR 


279 


“Because they are dull?” Miss Fanny asked, puzzled. 

“Well, they won’t know they are dull; and coming to 
a new place they will expect to he made a fuss of, and 
it’s a pity to disappoint people in this short world. Don’t 
you think so ?” 

“Yes, dear, but don’t overtire yourself.” 

Kirsty set off at a swinging pace along the frost-bound 
snowy road, bidding herself enjoy the beauty of the white 
world; but struggle as she would she could not keep her 
thoughts under control. Whatever she tried to think 
about seemed to lead her back to Alan Crawford’s let¬ 
ter. 

“It’s so frightfully funny,” she thought. “I can’t 
think why I’m not more amused. Here was I dreading, 
yet prepared to accept, an offer of marriage from a man 
who hadn’t a thought of me. His letters meant nothing 
evidently: it was only my silly imagination. I’m like 
Miss Baxter, Vho refused the captain before he axed 
her.’—^Really, to be prepared to sacrifice oneself and then 
find that no sacrifice is required is a dreadful let-down. 
I feel bruised and bumped.” 

About three o’clock she reached the gates of Carton 
Place where the Griffith-Thomsons had taken up their 
abode. “I expect they’ll be out,” she told herself hope¬ 
fully, but the servant who opened the door said Mrs. 
Griffith-Thomson was at home, and showed Kirsty into 
a small room at the back of the hall where the lady her¬ 
self was discovered running up curtains on a sewing- 
machine. 

She rose with an annoyed expression at the sight of 
Kirsty and said severely, “Take the lady into the drawing¬ 
room, Agnes, and light the fire as it’s beginning to get 
chilly.” 

^'Beginning to get chilly!"' Kirsty repeated to herself. 
The sun was already going down, and the cold was in- 


280 


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tense. The window of the drawing-room was thick with 
frost-flowers and the atmosphere was like a vault. 

Mrs. Griffith-Thomson, a small woman with a pinched 
mouth and a nervous manner, followed her into the room, 
and sitting down on the sofa began to make conversation, 
while Kirstj sat on a slim hard chair and tried to keep 
her teeth from chattering. The fire as yet was only one 
anaemic flame fastidiously licking a piece of coal, and had 
no effect on the icy air of the room. 

^T’m afraid I’m rather an early caller,” Kirsty said, 
feeling that an apology for the fire was necessary from 
some one, ‘^but the days are so short now that I thought 
I would come directly after luncheon. I do hope I’m not 
disturbing you.” 

^^Oh, no,” said Mrs. Griffith-Thomson, obviously lying, 
was only doing a little sewing. A new house needs 
so much.” 

^Tndeed it does. I live at Little Phantasy, and I only 
came last spring.” 

^Tndeed! It seems a pretty neighbourhood.” 

^^Oh, it is.” Kir sty was getting colder and colder; her 
breath made a white cloud before her every time she 
spoke. How long must she sit ? Ten minutes, any¬ 
way. 

The door opened and admitted Mr. Griffith-Thomson. 
He, too, was small and pinched, with a sparse black mous¬ 
tache. Kirsty felt she could have borne it better had he 
been a stout red-faced man. As it was he seemed to 
lower rather than raise the temperature of the room. 

They began again, together, on the beauty of the neigh¬ 
bourhood, while Kirsty tried to puzzle out why such a 
couple should have taken Carton Place. They were 
obviously intended to live in a suburb and go into town 
for shopping and concerts and theatres. They appeared 
to have nothing within themselves. 


PINK SUGAR 


281 


hope yon won’t find it too quiet here/’ she ventured, 
expect in winter almost nothing goes on.” 

^^It seems a little cheerless/’ said Mr. Griffith-Thomson 
in his bleak voice, ^Vith so much snow about, and the 
hills. We have always lived in a good suburb, so we shall 
miss a lot. But the Tweed is a nice stream. I fish a 
little, and Mrs. Thomson is fond of a garden.” 

^^One need not lack for occupation,” his wife said, ^^not 
even in the country.” 

^^No, indeed,” Kirsty agreed, and a silence fell. 

Mr. Griffith-Thomson cleared his throat but said noth¬ 
ing. His wife watched the one fiame fiutter against what 
was evidently a stony-hearted coal, but made no effort to 
help it with the poker. 

Kirsty rushed violently into the first subject that 
occurred to her. ^^There are two swans on Tweed. 
They swim about and look so pretty. ... In spring they 
built a nest and we so looked forward to baby swans, 
cygnets, I mean. I’ve never seen a cygnet and I always 
loved The TJgly DucTding, didn’t you? But there was 
only one egg and the mother-swan sat on it for weeks and 
weeks and then she got discouraged—^no wonder!—and 
it was never hatched at all.” 

^Tndeed ?” Mrs. Griffith-Thomson said coldly, as if she 
thought the subject not a very nice one, and again her 
husband cleared his throat, but said nothing. 

A wild desire to laugh seized Kirsty. What in the 
world had made her talk of swans? The very thought 
of them, swimming coldly, or resting on the snow-covered 
banks, chilled her already so chilly body. 

She got up to go, glad to take leave of the dreary little 
couple sitting in their so cold and lifeless room. They 
betrayed no emotion at her departure, as they had shown 
no pleasure at her appearance, and she went out feeling 
that her call had been entirely mistaken kindness. 


282 


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It was glorious Outside with the sunset sky pale green 
barred with rose-pink and Kirsty, in her relief, skipped 
with delight. To go home to the warmth and comfort of 
Little Phantasy, the generous fires. Aunt Fanny as com¬ 
fortable as a tea-cosy, the children.—She stopped, and all 
the life and vigour seemed to go out of her. The chil¬ 
dren ! It was a warm nest. Little Phantasy, but it would 
soon be an empty one. 

Colder far than the breasts of the swans on Tweed’s 
wan water, colder than the comfortless drawing-room 
with its bleak little inhabitants, came the remembrance 
that she was losing the children. It took every vestige 
of pleasure out of the present, and left her without hope 
or spirit for the future. 

Oh, if only that letter had not come, what fun to have 
gone home and made Aunt Fanny and Carty laugh at the 
odd reception she had got at Carton Place! How inter¬ 
ested they would have been in the new and very queer 
little couple! How she would have hugged the fire after 
being nearly frozen! How she had to go home and read 
to the children as if nothing had happened. To look at 
them, to laugh at their funny ways knowing that in a 
week she would see them and hear them no more. 

On the highroad, near the bridge, she met Colonel 
Home with his dogs. He turned and walked by her side, 
merely remarking, ''H’you mind my pipe and then re^ 
lapsing into silence. 

''Are you coming in to tea?” Kirsty asked, as they 
neared Little Phantasy. 

"Are you asking me ?” 

“Not really, only politely. You see—I’m not feeling 
very happy to-day. We heard this morning that Mr. 
Crawford (the children’s father, you know) has married 
a new wife and is coming to fetch ... to fetch Barbara 
and Specky and Bill.” 


PINK SUGAR 


283 


To lier deep disgust Kirstj found her voice breaking. 
^^As if I were asking for sympathy,” she said to herself. 

But whether she asked for it or not, she did not get it. 
Archie Home looked at her in silence for a few seconds, 
then, ^^Taking them away, is he?” he said. . . . ^We’re 
going to have hard frost to-night. It looks like being a 
long hard winter. It’s begun early. Good-night, Miss 
Gilmour.” 

As he walked away, whistling to his dogs, Kirsty looked 
after him with dim eyes. 

^^He might have been a little sorry. I thought he was 
fond of the children. He doesn’t care a pin what happens 
to any of us. ... I wish I’d never seen this place!” 


Chapter XXV 

"Parting is all we know of heaven, 

And all we need of hell . . 

Emily Dickinson, 

K iesty never knew kow she got through the week 
that elapsed between the coming of Alan Craw¬ 
ford’s letter and the arrival of himself and his wife. It 
always dwelt in her mind, a nightmare recollection. To 
be with the children, hearing them make plans for Christ¬ 
mas, arranging little festivities, and deciding what they 
would do with their gardens in the spring, was acute tor¬ 
ture. 

She had the prospect before her of telling the children, 
and of telling them in such a way as to make them like 
the thought of a stepmother and a new house. 

Stella Carter, with whom she talked it all over, said: 
“1 think you are very unselfish.” 

Kirsty scoffed at the notion. ‘Why, it’s sheer selfish¬ 
ness on my part, for if the children went away miserable 
I would be misable too. And naturally I don’t want to 
be that.” 

They were together in Barbara’s room looking over the 
children’s clothes. 

Kirsty was kneeling on the floor beside a pile of frocks. 
“What a child Barbara is! She treats her frocks 
exactly as an otter treats a salmon, takes a bite out of each 
and throws it aside. I^Tone of these things are soiled but 
none of them are quite fresh.” 

“I know. I’ve spoken about it to her often, but she 
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285 


has a passion for putting on fresh frocks. All those white 
knitted things had better be washed to go away clean.” 

Kirsty nodded. ^‘We mustn^t let the new mother think 
we didn’t look after them well. That would never do, 
Carty. If only we knew what kind of woman she is, but 
we haven’t an inkling. The best I can hope for is that 
she will let them alone. But promise me this, Carty, 
promise me solemnly that you won’t leave them till Bill 
goes to school. Barbara and Specky could go at once 
and Bill is six. Only two years, Carty, and you’re 
young.” 

^^But,” Carty objected, couldn’t insist on staymg if 
they wanted to get rid of me.” 

suppose you couldn’t,” said Kirsty gloomily, ^T>ut 
I refuse to think of such a thing. . . . Remember, you 
must come here always for your holidays, and if—if you 
should have to leave the children . . . come straight to 
Little Phantasy. I hear from Merren Strang that she 
has arranged to start immediately after Christmas with 
Rebecca. Miss Wotherspoon is going to look after your 
Rob. Hellie has a sister who can come here in her place 
for the time. Oh, Carty, if only Mr. Crawford had stayed 
away! Men are the most uncomfortable creatures. . . 

Mr. and Mrs. Crawford were expected on the Wednes¬ 
day and on the Sunday night Kirsty told the children. 

They particularly loved Sunday evening for two rea¬ 
sons, one being that they did not have a bath but only a 
wash (^^grubby night,” they called it), and the other that 
Kirsty told them stories all the time from tea till bed¬ 
time. They were supposed, in deference to Miss Fanny’s 
wishes, to be Bible stories, but there is a limit to Bible 
stories, and as the children ceaselessly demanded some¬ 
thing new, Kirsty was forced to adapt- secular tales to 
Sunday purposes by providing them with a moral. Rider 
Haggard’s She without losing its thrills became a tale 


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of missionary zeal, while Alan Breck, that bonnie fighter, 
would hardly have known himself as a colporteur hawk¬ 
ing Bibles. 

This Sunday evening they were gathered round the 
schoolroom fire. The children preferred it to the 
drawing-room, for Miss Fanny was there, occupying the 
best chair and looking pained when Barbara laughed too 
loudly, or Bill and Specky told each other home-truths. 
There was no one to shock in the schoolroom, and nothing 
to spoil. You might pull the furniture about as you 
liked, and rumple the rugs and leave cushions on the 
floor. 

Bill had a footstool of his own on which he liked to sit 
close to Kirsty’s feet, while Barbara enjoyed the stories 
best when she drew pictures as well as listened. Specky 
gloated over his fly-book. 

^^Do tell us about Huckleberry Finn,” he said, looking 
up. ^^The bit about the raft.” 

I like the bit about Moses,” Barbara said, ^^about H 
don’t take no stock in dead people.’ ” 

'T’m going to tell you a true story,” Kirsty said. 

Bill turned a suspicious glance on her and said warn- 
ingly: 

^^Hot about me.” True stories, in his experience, had 
a nasty trick of bringing in names of delinquents to point 
the moral. 

^^Tie, we prefer stories that aren’t true,” Barbara said 
with dignity, as she sharpened a pencil preparatory to 
beginning on a work of art. 

''Well, we’ll try a true one to-day,” said Kirsty, "and 
I want you to listen very carefully. Are you listening, 
Specky? Once upon a time there were three children, 
not bad children as children go, and they lived with their 
father and mother and were always very happy and some¬ 
times fairly good.—Barbara, my dear, do you think you 


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287 


should suck those crayons? They can’t be wholesole.— 
But their mother had to go away and leave them-” 

‘Ts it us?” Specky asked. 

‘^Yes, it’s you. You remember how very sad you were 
when your darling mother couldn’t play with you and 
tell you stories any more because she was so weak and 
ill? And God saw that she wanted a rest, so He took 
her away to His own country where nobody is ever ill or 
tired or sad. But she never forgets her Barbara and 
Specky and Bill. She loves you more and more as the 
years pass—always remember that, darlings—and some 
day you will go to her, and you will all be together again, 
and that will be a lovely day. . . . But what pleases your 
mother most is to know that you are happy and good on 
this earth, and you have been happy, haven’t you, my 
mice, at Little Phantasy ?” 

‘We’re not going away ?” Bill asked quickly, before the 
others could answer. 

“That’s what I’m telling you about. Just listen for a 
minute and you’ll hear. You missed your mother, I 
know, missed most dreadfully not having her to sing to 
you and play with you, and come and cuddle you up, and 
all the sweet names she called you, and the way she ran 
to you at night if you gave the slightest little frightened 
cry. But poor Daddy missed her much more than you 
did. He missed her so much that he couldn’t bear the 
house without her so he shut it up and went away to see 
if he would get any better travelling about the world.” 

She paused, but no comment was made, so she went on: 

“How, while he was travelling about he met a lady who 
had lost her husband and she was very lonely and sad. 
And because they were both lonely they talked a lot to 
each other, and they liked talking to each other and found 
that when they were together they weren’t so lonely, so 
they agreed that they would marry each other.” 



288 


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She stopped and looked at the children almost dread¬ 
ing what she would see in their faces, but they remained 
perfectly calm. 

BiU said, ‘^Is that all ? Now tell us about Huck Finn.’’ 

^^That was quite a nice story, Pie, but not very excit¬ 
ing,’’ Barbara said, as she finished putting wings on a 
fairy she was drawing. ‘^Did you say Daddy had mar¬ 
ried some lady?” Her tone was supremely uninterested. 

think,” said Kirsty, feeling that all her tact had 
been wasted, think you are the most heartless children 
I ever knew, quite without natural affection. Sit up now 
and listen. Your father has married this lady and they 
are coming here on Wednesday. You are going away 
with them to Perthshire where the lady has a lovely place. 
Who said this story wasn’t exciting ?” 

For answer Barbara cast all her drawing materials vio¬ 
lently on the floor, and flung herself at Kirsty’s feet, 
clasping her round the knees, and sobbing bitterly, 
shan’t go. I shan’t go.” 

Bill merely folded his mouth to a straight line of obsti¬ 
nacy, while Specky said gently, ^^I’ll stay with you. Pie.” 

Kirsty had no longer any need to complain of indiffer¬ 
ence. 

It was some time before Barbara could be quieted 
sufficiently to listen to the tale of the joys that awaited 
them in their new home, and Kirsty’s explanation of the 
position regarding their stepmother. ‘^She doesn’t want 
in the least to take the place of your own mother, you 
understand that, don’t you ? She only wants to make you 
1^0 make your father happy.” 

^Why can’t she make Daddy happy and leave us 
alone?” Barbara wanted to know. 

^^And when we all go to God’s country,” Specky said 
in his grave way, ^^and get our own mother back what will 


PINK SUGAR 


2S9 


Daddy do with this lady ? He won’t need her then, will 

her 

^^Ho-o,” said Kirsty, nonplussed. Then she had an in¬ 
spiration. course the lady will get her own husband 
back then.” 

‘Will she?” said Specky doubtfully; “it all seems very 
queer.” 

“Specky,” said Kirsty, “the world is full of queer 
things which you and I can never hope to understand, but 
in the next world there will be neither marrying nor giv¬ 
ing in marriage and that’s a comfort. ... How I’ll tell 
you about your new home.” She shut her eyes as if she 
were seeing visions. “What times you will have! I 
shouldn’t be in the least surprised if you have a pony.” 

“We’ve a pony here,” said Bill coldly. 

“Ah, but a Shetland pony, all shaggy, and so small that 
it doesn’t matter how often you fall off, because you can’t 
hurt yourself, you are so near the ground.” 

A spark of interest came into Bill’s gloomy blue eyes 
which, however, he quenched instantly, while Barbara 
tossed her long plaits and said, “I’d rather have Phantasy 
than all the beastly ponies in the world.” 

Specky sighed and asked if there were any bums in 
Perthshire. 

“Burns! My dear son, there are rushing mighty 
rivers. The Tay, the Tummel, the Garry. Salmon leap¬ 
ing all over the place, and trout! Perhaps your father 
will take you out in a boat to fish. How you will love it!” 

“If he loves it,” said Barbara viciously, “I’ll kick 
him.” 

“I shan’t love it,” poor Specky protested. “Hone of 
them could be as nice as the Hope Water. The trout are 
so friendly to me now.” 

The door which was not quite shut creaked a little. 


290 


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and Percy, the cat, walked in a stately way across the 
floor. 

The three children immediately flung themselves on 
him, to tell him the story of their wrongs. 

Percy lay on Barbara’s knee looking infinitely wise, 
while Specky and Bill each held a paw. 

^Tercy, Pie says we’re to go away from Little Phan- 
tasy,” Barbara told him. ^^Baddy’s found some sort of 
lady to marry and we’ve got to go to live with her.” 

‘Tn Persia,” supplemented Bill. 

^Terthshire,” corrected Kirsty. 

^ It’s all the same to Percy,” said Specky, ^^he comes 
from Persia anyway.” 

^^Put down Percy and come and sing hymns to Aunt 
Panny,” Kirsty suggested mildly. 

^^Sing!” said Barbara, looking at her out of swollen 
reproachful eyes. 

''Why not? It would be better than making poor 
Percy uncomfortable by dropping salt tears on his fur. 
Ah, here is Carty. She will cheer us all up.” 

Stella Carter came forward to the fire and knelt down 
to stroke Percy. She did not look at any one but began 
to talk in an even, cheerful voice about an exciting book 
she had been reading; and presently Kirsty rose and 
slipped away. 

She went up to her own room, not feeling able at the 
moment for Miss Fanny’s conversation. 

Her fire was burning brightly, the curtains drawn, the 
room made ready for the night. She lit the candles on 
the writing-table, and sat down with note-paper before 
her. 

^ She meant to write to Blanche Cunningham, but she 
bit her pen for many minutes before she wrote a word. 
When she did begin she wrote with a lagging pen. 
Kothing seemed of enough interest to put down on paper. 


PINK SUGAR 


291 


^^Such a lot of things have happened, Blanche, my 
dear, since I wrote last; though it isn’t much more than 
a week, it seems an age. Firstly, Carty has got engaged 
to Rob Brand. They are so happy and I am so glad for 
them. They make the nicest sort of lovers, quite 
natural and friendly in the public eye, but really very 
much in love. They won’t be married for a year or two, 
anyway. Carty is young and Rob has no money to speak 
of. Also there is the question of Rebecca Brand. Natur¬ 
ally, Rob won’t marry until she is comfortably settled 
somewhere—and all that will take time.” 

‘^And dear Nannie Tait is dead. I suppose we ex¬ 
pected it, but it somehow came as a great shock. The 
courage of that stricken little mother was something to 
wonder at. 

expect you will have heard before this reaches you, 
that Mr. Alan Crawford is being married shortly, to¬ 
morrow, I believe, and he writes that he and his bride are 
coming here on Wednesday to take the children away. 

am trying not to make a fuss, Blanche. I’ve had 
them for nearly seven months, longer than at first I 
hoped; and I always knew I held them on an uncertain 
tenure. If only I knew what kind of woman the new Mrs. 
Crawford is, if I were certain that she would make a real 
home for the children, I wouldn’t be so sweir to let them 
go. But I hope and believe it will be all right. When¬ 
ever I see her I shall write and tell you how she strikes 
me. It is harder far for you. 

“I’m so frightfully stupid to-night, I can’t write at all, 
but I love you, Blanche.—Your Kirsty.” 

—^Don’t, please, be sorry that the children came 
here. I wouldn’t for worlds have missed having them. 
I am sending Rose Macaulay’s new book. I know how 
you enjoy her. This one Told hy an Idiot is brilliant. 
But she sums up life—'a story told by an idiot, and not 


292 


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a very nice idiot at that, but an idiot with gleams of 
genius and fineness. N’o achievement can matter, and all 
things done are vanity . . . but the queer, enduring 
spirit of enterprise when it animates the dust we are is 
not contemptible or absurd.^ 

“To-night I almost believe it, that life is a tale told by 
an idiot, but that is only because I’m down and out at 
the moment. In a little my heart will jump up again— 
as Easie would say, ^I’ll be better gin mornin’!’ ” 


Chapter XXVI 

“The popular preference for a story with a happy 
ending is not a mere sweet stuff optimism; it is the 
remains of the old idea of the triumph of the dragon- 
slayer, the ultimate apotheosis of the man beloved of 
heaven.” 

G. K. Chesterton. 

M r. and Mrs. Alan Crawford arrived about eleven 
o’clock, stayed to luncheon, and left, with the chil¬ 
dren, immediately after. 

Easie Orphoot, who had wept at intervals for two days, 
remarked on the day of departure, ^Weel, weel, better a 
finger off than aye waggin’,” to which piece of philosophy 
Nellie responded with a howl like a wolf. Miss Wother- 
spoon said nothing, but looked, if possible, more disap¬ 
proving than ever of the world at large, and of the par¬ 
ticular corner which she found herself inhabiting. The 
children alternated between moments of excited anticipa¬ 
tion and hours of deep gloom. 

Kirsty had never dared to allow her thoughts to centre 
on the new Mrs. Crawford, but unconsciously she had 
in the back of her mind the picture of a pretty posing 
creature, very feminine and clinging^^ rather like her own 
stepmother, the sort of woman that would be likely to 
appeal to a susceptible man; and she had had very little 
comfort in thinking of the children’s future. So .sure 
had she been of the correctness of her surmise, that when 
Mrs. Crawford came into the 'room she felt in a bewil¬ 
dered way that there had been some mistake, that the real 
Mrs. Crawford had failed to appear. 

Alan Crawford’s new wife .(widow of one Robert Weir, 
293 


294 


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of large fortune) was what is known as a fine woman. 
She was dark and tall and inclined to be massive. Her 
face looked somewhat forbidding, until she smiled, but 
her eyes were the eyes of a nice dog, honest and anxious 
and a little beseeching. When Kirsty met those eyes her 
anxious heart lightened: here was no ordinary step¬ 
mother. 

Alan Crawford greeted Kirsty in the most enthusiastic 
way, holding both her hands, gazing at her with the 
frankest admiration in his eyes, appealing to his wife to 
know if Kirsty was not all he had told her, pure gold hair 
and all, and Kirsty, looking at him, tanned by sun and 
sea-winds, debonair, graceful, handsomer than she had 
remembered him, realised with complete certainty that 
she could never have married him. 

^^The children are in the garden somewhere,’’ she told 
him, after they had talked for a few minutes. ^^They are 
saying good-bye to all their favourite haunts. Perhaps 
you would like to go and find them yourself.” 

Mr. Crawford went with alacrity and Kirsty sat down 
and tried to think of something to say to the new 
wife. 

Her manners were rather awkward and it was evident 
that she was not quite at her ease (probably, thought 
Kirsty, the late Robert Weir had risen in life and had 
married while he was still down) but she made no effort 
to appear anything but what she was, a simple good 
woman. 

'T just hope he’ll make her happy,” thought Kirsty. 
^^But some men are bom husbands and I think he’s one; 
and she will always be grateful.” 

Kirsty spoke pleasantly about nothing till she found 
that her companion was not listening, when she stopped. 

''Were you surprised to hear about our marriage?” 
Mrs. Crawford asked abruptly. 


PINK SUGAR 


295 


was, rather,” said Kirsty. 

There was a pause, then Mrs. Crawford spoke again. 
donT wonder. I was surprised myself. In fact I 
can’t believe it yet. We met on board ship, you know? 
The doctor sent me for a voyage because I was all run 
down, first nursing my husband, then my mother-in-law. 
I was left alone, you see, and I think that great big 
house got on my nerves. . . . I’m older than he is, six 
years older and I look more. Of course I’ve got lots of 
money—but I don’t believe that was why he married me.” 
She looked almost defiantly at Kirsty, who said, ^^Of 
course not.” 

^Wou’ve been very good to the children. He couldn’t 
say enough about it, and about you—that you were like 
something out of a fairy-tale, you know how he talks? 
It’s all new to me that way of talking. Mr. Weir never 
talked like that, but of course, he was a business man, 
and that makes a difference. You expect artists to have 
queer ways. . . . Did Mr. Crawford—did Alan know 
you well that he left the children with you ?” 

^^Oh, no, I only saw him once, when he came to arrange 
about the children coming. He stayed a night then. It 
is the children’s aunt, Blanche Cunningham, who is my 
great friend and it was through her the children came 
to me.” 

There was a silence, and then Mrs. Crawford said, 
^Will you not be very sorry to let the children go ?” 

Kirsty laughed. ^Well, I shan’t be as sorry as I would 
have been if I hadn’t met you. I can trust them to you.” 

The dog-like eyes suddenly filled with tears. 

^T’ve never had a child of my own. It was a terrible 
vex to Mr. Weir, but it was worse for me. ... I prom¬ 
ise you. Miss Gilmour, that they’ll never be sick nor sorry 
if I can help it. Everything money can get they’ll have. 
Are they—are they easy children to get on with ?” 


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You’ll adore them/’ Kirstj assured her. ^^Hasn’t 
their father told you about them ? They are the happiest 
creatures. Specky, the elder boy, you will find a positive 
delight to do anything for. He purrs when he is pleased, 
I mean to say he always tells you when things are nice, 
and is so conscious of his own happiness. Barbara is a 
great dear, and as for old Bill. . . . By the way, I’m 
afraid I’ve promised them a Shetland pony in your 
name.” 

^^Oh, goodness, yes, as many as they like. But do they 
want to come ? Aren’t they terribly sorry to leave you ?” 

^^Oh, they are,” Kirsty acknowledged. ‘We’ve been 
very happy together. But you know what children are. 
Once they are in a new place and surrounded by new in¬ 
terests they so quickly forget. And a great blessing it 
is, the easy forgetfulness of childhood.” 

“But what about you ?” 

“I must get new interests too. Here they come. 
You see they are as pleased and excited as possible at 
having their father again.” 

Mrs. Crawford joined Kirsty at the window and 
watched the children come across the lawn with their 
father. 

“What if they don’t take to me ?” She moistened her 
lips nervously. “I haven’t much way with children. I 
thought they were wee tots, I didn’t realise they were so 
big, especially the girl. Perhaps she will think me . . .” 
She stopped and looked apprehensively at Kirsty, who 
said reassuringly: 

“Barbara’s very young for her age. She’s only about 
eleven though she is so tall, and is the simplest child; 
you’ll get on together splendidly.” 

The door opened and Alan Crawford cried eagerly, 
“These are the children.” 

Barbara and Specky came forward and allowed them- 


PINK SUGAR 


297 


selves to be kissed, but Bill stood stock-still in tbe door- 
way. He wore bis ‘H^loodhound face,’’ and glowered at 
tbe newcomer. 

Kir sty went to bim and led bim forward and, still 
bolding bis band, knelt beside bim before bis stepmother. 

Bill looked at bis father’s wife—a swift glance—then 
turned and looked into Kirsty’s eyes. That look told her 
all that bis tongue would fain have uttered, told her that 
be liked people slim as willow wands, with shining hair, 
and detested such as filled their clothes impressively, and 
bad large swarthy faces. 

Kirsty quailed for what be would do or say next, but 
be took another look at bis stepmother, met her eyes, saw 
in them what Kirsty bad seen, something gentle and anx¬ 
ious and beseeching—and of bis own accord be put bis 
band in hers. 

They left after luncheon. Large crystal tears rolled 
slowly over Specky’s face and be held on to bis fishing- 
rod as bis only comfort; Barbara sobbed aloud, and 
clung in turn to Miss Fanny, Miss Wotberspoon, Easie, 
Kellie, and Kirsty; Bill bugged bis melodeon and said 
nothing. 

When they were all gone Kirsty walked slowly up¬ 
stairs. She felt strangely tired. 

It was all over. The door of tbe Stable stood open. 
Miss Wotberspoon bad been cleaning it, and a large heap 
of out-grown garments and discarded books and toys were 
piled on a chair, ready to be given away, or sent to a 
jumble sale. On tbe top was tbe red plush teddy bear 
that Bill bad carried about with bim everywhere. 

Kirsty seized it. It must be sent after bim, be would 
be missing it terribly, be loved it even better than bis 
melodeon. She remembered bow be bad carried it but¬ 
toned under bis new overcoat, with tbe bead sticking 
comically out, tbe day they bad gone to Priorsford to 


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get the bojs’ hair cut. What a long time ago that seemed 
already! Then she had felt quite securely that the chil¬ 
dren would be with her indefinitely. She had held their 
hands with a proprietary air. She had been looking for¬ 
ward to Christmas trees and planning all manner of 
amusements. She had been thinking of spring and the 
delights spring would bring. A length of happy days 
had seemed to stretch endlessly in front of her. And now 
—the two little beds stood straight and smooth. An air 
of prim tidiness was over everything. There was no one 
now to kick the rugs about and scatter things on the 
floor. One could now lean back in a chair without being 
impaled on a hook, and cease to fear to find tumblers of 
dirty water belonging to Barbara’s painting operations in 
every place where they were most likely to be knocked 
over. Books would remain on shelves, cushions in 
chairs; the mantel-shelf would no longer be decorated 
with stones believed to be agates and treasured by Bill, or 
forgotten tins of worms owned by Specky. 

Kirsty shivered. It felt as if some one had died. 

Outside the sparkle and gaiety of the frost and snow 
had gone. Ratchell top was in the mists. Garden was in¬ 
visible, Cademuir and Hendleshope and the Black Mel- 
don were dim shapes, and rain was falling with melan¬ 
choly persistence. 

Kirsty wandered back to the drawing-room. Here 
things looked more cheerful. Outside were the driving 
rain and the swaying trees, but within the fire was re¬ 
flected in the shining old mahogany, the parrots swung 
gaily among the tulips on the chintzes, tall chrysanthe¬ 
mums made the room fragrant with their fresh spicy 
smell. Miss Kanny, soft and comfortable in her fleecy 
shawls, dozed in her armchair, and Percy, the cat, lay 
curled on the fender-stool. 


PINK SUGAR 


299 


And in her sick heart Kirsty hated the comfort of it. 

Three-thirty! The children would have been coming 
in (they had never regarded the weather) to change their 
wet clothes and come down brushed and dry and ready 
for tea. It had always been such a gay meal, more espe¬ 
cially since the early darkening* eating by lamplight had 
pleased the children mightily. 

Miss Fanny sat up and delicately rubbed her eyes. 

^“^My dear,” she said apologetically, must have 
dropped asleep. I woke rather early this morning. A 
departure always unsettles me. I wish the dear children 
had got a more cheerful day to go. Travelling in the rain 
is so depressing. . . . You will miss them, Kirsty.” 

“Yes,” said Kirsty. 

“But of course,” Aunt Fanny continued, “it is the 
proper thing that they should be with their parents, and 
it is so fortunate that Mrs. Crawford is rich and seems 
inclined to be generous. Had the first wife money? I 
never heard, but of course Mr. Crawford must have a 
good private income or he could never career about the 
world as he does and do no work. The children will lack 
for nothing. I could see that Mrs. Crawford was quite 
prepared to make herself a slave to them. She will prob¬ 
ably spoil them completely with adoration, and her hus¬ 
band too. Dear me, how plain she is! It seems a pity 
deliberately to marry a plain woman; the prettiest have 
their ugly moments, but to begin with some one frankly 
ugly is simply . . . however-” 

Miss Fanny was feeling very content. She had been 
sorry in a way to see the children go, but she was think¬ 
ing pleasantly that there would be no more sticky fingers 
on her work, and that Kirsty would be much more with 
her now that she had not the children to take up her 
attention. And tea would be coming in presently, and tea 



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on a wet N'ovember afternoon was very welcome. Kirsty, 
poor child, was out of spirits, but she would get over that. 

The bell rang, and Colonel Home was shown in. 

Miss Eanny felt rather annoyed. She would have 
enjoyed her tea better without him and Kirsty was in 
no mood for a visitor. 

But Kirsty, to her aunt’s astonishment, at once began 
to talk with great animation. 

^^Have you come to condole?” she asked, laughing 
lightly. ‘^Aunt Fanny and I are feeling very bereft. 
Yes, they went just after luncheon. Oh, in excellent 
spirits. They are enormously interested in their new 
life, and the thought of all the glories of Inchtay—that is 
the name of Mrs. Crawford’s place, bought by her late 
husband, who did something mysterious with bottles. I 
can’t quite make out what it was, but it must have been 
very large and very paying, for he seems to have left her 
exceedingly well off.” 

‘‘You like her, I hope?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Kirsty. “She’s a little, how shall I 
say it ? There’s a slight flavour of the bottles about her, 
perhaps . . 

Miss Fanny glanced at her niece. Kirsty saw the 
glance, and remembered also the beseeching look in the 
honest eyes of the woman she was discussing, and hated 
herself. 

“There is something big about her,” she went on. “I 
don’t quite know what made Mr. Crawford marry her. 
I mean, I don’t think he had the sense to do it himself. 
It must have been instinct that made him choose so wisely 
twice running. I am glad for the children.” 

Miss Wotherspoon came in to make preparations for 
tea. 

“You will feel your hands empty,” Archie Home said 
to Kirsty. 


PINK SUGAR 


SOI 


He seemed to be in a surprisingly gentle mood. 

^Tor a day or two,” Kirsty said lightly. expect we 
shall go away soon for the winter. One can’t always 

stay in the same place-” She rose abruptly. ^^Aunt 

Tanny, will you give Colonel Home tea? I’ve just re¬ 
membered something I ought to do.” 

In a second she was out of the room. 

She felt she must get into open air, away from the talk 
and the comfort in the drawing-room. Throwing a coat 
round her she opened the door and slipped quietly out. 

The wind met her, buffeting her, blowing her hair 
over her face, but she caught her coat round her and ran 
through the sodden garden, down to the side of the Hope 
Water. 

. . Gie me a Border burn 
That canna rin wi’oot a turn.” 

The words brought back to her mind a sunny summer 
day in a green glen where a hawthorn tree had shaken 
white petals on the turf, and children’s voices had 
mingled with the song of the water. 

'‘Pooeelie, pooeelie/^ the whaups had cried. . . . 

The Hope Water had come down from the hills with 
their melting snow, and ran high in spate. There was 
no little grey figure now wandering up and down the 
banks. Specky and his fishing-rod had gone, but the 
path in the grass that his patient feet had trod was there, 
and it was too much for Kirsty. She had kept up bravely 
but now the full blast of her loss struck her, and she sank 
to the ground sobbing like a broken-hearted child. 

^^Specky,” she moaned, as if summoning him to her 
aid, ‘^Specky!” But Specky was speeding every minute 
further from her, and the water rushed unheeding past. 

She had sobbed herself almost quiet when she became 
aware that her landlord was standing beside her. 



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Raising herself on one hand she glared at him. 

^^Why have you come here?” she asked. “Go away, 
please. I want to be alone.” 

There may be people who can look pretty in tears, but 
of a certainty Kirsty was not one of them. Her eyelids 
were swollen, her face had lost all its delicate colour and 
was blotched and disfigured, her hair was bedraggled with 
the rain. But to Archie Home she had never seemed 
so human and so lovable. 

She dabbed her eyes with a futile little damp ball of a 
handkerchief and he gravely held out his own large one, 
still in its folds. 

There is nothing more annoying than to have people 
assume that one is going to cry indefinitely and Kirsty 
indignantly refused the proffered handkerchief. 

“What’s that for?” she asked coldly. “I’ve got one 
of my own—^thanks.” Then shakily, “I know you’re 
laughing at me. You think it’s silly and sentimental to 
cry like this about—about-” 

Archie Home shook his head in denial, but she heeded 
him not. 

“I was so happy,” she went on, “I thought I had made 
a home all secure and warm, and now it’s a harried nest 
—the birds all gone.” 

“They were cuckoos, Kirsty.” 

Kirsty gave a mixture of a laugh and a sob, which 
resulted in a sort of snort. “Y-you’re getting mixed in 
your bird knowledge. Cuckoos aren’t invited into a nest, 

are they ? If Bill heard you call him a cuckoo- Oh, 

Bill, She dropped back in a crumpled heap on 

the wet grass, all attempt at dignity gone. 

Her companion made no attempt to comfort her, but 
simply stood beside her and waited. 

Presently she looked up at him with something of 
apology in her face. 




PINK SUGAR 


303 


don’t know why I’m behaving like this, but, anyway, 
it isn’t very nice of you to come and spy on me. . . . 
Why aren’t you having tea comfortably with Aunt 
Panny ?” 

^^WTiy? Because I’m standing by the Hope Water 
with the rain running down my neck, trying to summon 
up courage to ask you to marry me.” 

Kirsty sat with her handkerchief halfway to her eyea 
and stared incredulously. 

^Will you, Kirsty?” 

Utterly demoralised, Kirsty began to cry again, and 
as she cried she said: 

‘^You don’t know what sort of woman I am or you 
wouldn’t ask me that. I was prepared to marry Alan 
Crawford, not caring for him in the least, simply for the 
sake of Bill.” 

Archie Home seemed unimpressed by such infamy. 

^Well,” he said coolly, ^^Bill’s a better reason for 
marrying than most people have.” 

But Kirsty was down in the depths, walking in the 
Valley of Humiliation, unable to see a ray of daylight. 

^^WTien I came to Little Phantasy I meant to do so 
much,” she moaned, “and I’ve been such a hopeless fail¬ 
ure. I was going to be a mother to the children, and I 
wasn’t wanted. I was going to cherish the village people 
and they won’t be cherished. I tried to save dear little 
Kannie Tait and I couldn’t. I was going to make Carty 
and Bob Brand happy, and I’ve done Bebecca out of a 
home. And now,” she turned reproachfully on her suitor, 
“and now you come and offer to marry me out of pity.”^ 

Archie Home’s temper was always inclined to be brittle. 

“My dear girl,” he said, “for goodness’ sake don’t talk 
nonsense. I’m not standing here in the rain for pleasure. 
Get up now and come home and get dry. I don’t want 
to have you down with rheumatic fever.” 


304 


PINK SUGAR 


He stopped, and putting his arm round her pulled her 
to her feet and, still keeping his arm round her, he said, 
^Tity, you silly child! Haven’t I adored you for the 
last six months and had no hope because I thought you 
cared for this man Crawford. ... Is it possible that you 
can ever care for me, Kirsty?” 

Kirsty was finding it strangely comfortable to lean her 
weary head against a shoulder in a wet burberry. 

^^How can I tell?” she said. haven’t had time for 
anything but trying to make myself think I could marry 
Alan Crawford—who never gave a thought to me.” She 
stopped suddenly, remembering how extraordinarily happy 
she had been all through the summer and autumn. Had 
there been some secret fount of joy that she had not 
suspected ? 

was so happy,” she went on. thought it was 
because the children were there. . . . Could it have been 
youf'^ 

^^My dear, if I could dare to think so.” 

Kirsty thought for a minute or two. It was wonder¬ 
fully natural to be standing here leaning on her land¬ 
lord’s shoulder. She could not understand it. 

^^But,” she suddenly slid from his encircling arm and 
faced him, ^^how could you care for me when you hardly 
ever spoke to me ? Have you forgotten how you dis¬ 
approved of me, how you always scolded me ? We each 
seemed to make the other cross. I’m not quarrelsome 
with other people as I am with you. . . . Have you for¬ 
gotten what kind of creature I am? I’m not going to 
change if I do marry you—don’t think it. I’ll always 
be full of sentiment. I’ll always like what you call the 
^pink sugar’ of life. I’ll always be doing things to 
irritate you. . . .” 

‘Huch as?” 


PINK SUGAR 


305 


“Oh,” said Xirsty, ^^ike-” she remembered sud¬ 

denly an incident that had provoked her stepmother, “like 
running hack and giving an extra tip to a waiter if I 
think he looks consumptive! I simply can’t help trying 
to make people pleased. Even if I don’t at all like a 
woman I find myself telling her nice thnigs I have heard 
people say of her simply to make her purr. Eebecca 
Brand says it’s a form of selfishness and I daresay she 
is right.” 

Archie Home caught her in his arms and kissed her, 
kissed the wet hair, and the tear-stained eyelids, and the 
mouth that trembled haK with laughter and half with 
grief. 

“You ridiculous darling,” he said, “don’t you suppose 
I love pink sugar for your sake ?” 

After a pause. ^Well,” said Kirsty, “I’ll try to quarrel 
with you a good deal for the sake of variety. Otherwise, 
you might find life with me rather like supping syrup.” 

They walked homewards oblivious of the rain and the 
gathering darkness. 

‘What will Aunt Eanny say ?” Kirsty wondered. “She 
must stay on at Little Phantasy with Easie and Miss 
Wotherspoon, if you don’t mind, Archie.—That’s the 
first time I’ve said your name—^Archie! ... You know 
although she looks so placid and comfortable and but¬ 
tressed with shawls, she is really dreadfully frightened of 
being old and having to die. Isn’t that pathetic? I 
would like always to stay near her so that I could hold her 
hand if she goes first out of Vanity Fair. . . .” Kirsty 
stopped and added, “Hot that this world has been much 
of a Vanity Fair to her. More like Paternoster Eow 
with so many hymn-books and religious weeklies and little 
books about Heaven! You do like her, don’t you, Archie ? 
I wish you would talk to her as much as you can and 



306 


PINK SUGAR 


ask her advice about things and just try to make a fuss 
of her a little. I know it isn’t your way, but it would 
please her.” 

^^I’ll try,” Archie Home said meekly. 

As they came up to the lighted house he suddenly felt 
her shaken with a sob. 

^^Still grieving for Bill, darling ?” 

^^Hot really,” said Kirsty, now well out of the Valley 
of Humiliation, and inclined to be impertinent. ^^When 
I have you I haven’t lost old Bill, for men, even when, 
like you, they are middle-aged and rather cross, are only 
little boys at heart.” 


Chapter XXVII 


. . For tragedy Dorothea had no aptitude at all. 

She did what she could—tidied up/’ 

^‘The Westcotes.” 

3 a rule there was not mnch to talk about in Muirbnrn. 



-iTV Mrs. Stark had once amused Kirsty by recounting 
to her that ‘Vhen the coo died Robert and me juist sat 
and crackit about the Other World.’’ 

'Now Little Phantasy supplied sensation after sensa¬ 
tion. First, the sudden arrival of Mr. Alan Crawford 
with his new wife, and the departure of the children; 
next, the rumour that the laird was going to marry Miss 
Gilmour; and then that the minister was engaged to the 
governess. 

The kitchen folk of Little Phantasy had never known 
themselves of such importance to the district. It was 
amazing how many people found it necessary to call at 
the kitchen door, and were hospitably haled in and enter¬ 
tained to tea and talk. 

Mrs. Dickson from The Shop ran round in the ^^darken¬ 
ing” with a shawl round her head, leaving her husband 
behind the counter (where he was no ornament, and 
almost entirely useless), so that, as she put it, she might 
hear Easie’s breath on it. 

Easie was making a pudding for the dinner, and asked 
her visitor to be seated, and excuse her going on with her 
work. 

^^Makin’ the denner as usual,” she said, “though to tell 
ye the truth, what wi’ yae thing and another, I feel mair 


307 


308 


PINK SUGAR 


like fleein’ up i’ the air than makin’ this pudden.” She 
beat butter and sugar vigorously for a minute, and went 
on —''Hard labour pudden I ca’ it, for it needs sic a 
beatin’ to mak’ it richt. Eh, but wark’s no the hertsome 
thing that it was when oor bairns were here. It was a 
pleasure to cook then, wi’ Specky rinnin’ oot and in ask¬ 
in’ for raisins to eat and empty tins for his wurrums, 
or wantin’ a troot weighed. He was that disappointed, 
the puir bairn, when the scales hardly moved. I hed aye 
to tell him that the weights were wrang. Bill was a 
caution, for he aye wantit to help me, and patted awa’ 
at jam turn-overs—sic nate wee hands he had. An’ Miss 
Barbara could mak’ pancakes no sae bad at a’. She’s 
growin’ up a braw lass, she’ll mak’ somebody sigh and 

set by their supper- Ay, they gaed off on Wednes^ 

day. Is that only twae days they’ve been awa’? Mercy! 
It’s mair like a month.” 

Easie turned to inspect something in the oven, and 
Mrs. Dickson seized the opportunity to ask, ^^What like’s 
the new wife ?” 

Easie closed the oven door and, standing with her 
hands on her sides, said solemnly: 

^^A muckle blackaveesed wumman. A great hoose end 
o’ a wife. A sulky-lookin’ cratur. Oh, I tell ye ma 
hert was sair for thae bairns, but Miss Eirsty says I’m 
no to say that. She says Mrs. Crawford is a fine body, 
and that she’ll be rale guid to them, and mebbe she’s 
richt, but I canna help feelin’ vexed for Mr. Crawford 
—sic a blythe fellay to get sic a dour-lookin’ wife 1” 

^^An’ what’s this aboot Miss Kirsty and the laird? 
Dickson says-” 

But what Mr. Dickson said Easie was not to hear, for 
at that moment Miss Wotherspoon came in, and behind 
her Mrs. Stark. 

^^My, Mrs. Stark,” Mrs. Dickson greeted her, ^fit’s no 




PINK SUGAR S09 

often we meet you in onybody’s boose. We’ll need to 
strike a back in tbe post.” 

^^Ye may say it,” Mrs. Stark said, taking tbe cbair 
Miss Wotberspoon offered ber. ^^I’m no likely to be 
cursed for failing to withdraw ma fit from ma neebor’s 
boose.—Agnes cam’ in wi’ a story that tbe laird was 
gaun to marry your Miss, an’ I juist cam’ ricbt doon to 
see if it was true.” 

^^Loosen yer cloak, Mrs. Stark,” Miss Wotberspoon 
advised, ^‘an’ ye’ll feel tbe good of it when we go out. 
I’ve been down at tbe post-office, and I’m fair out of 
breatb. . . . Ay, it’s true. They’re engaged. It’s to 
be in tbe papers the mom’s morning.” 

Easie was still beating ber ‘ffiard labour” pudding 
and she continued to beat as she broke into tbe conver¬ 
sation with, “Miss Kirsty came in yesterday mornin’ as 
usual to speak aboot tbe denner and things, and says she, 
‘Easie,’ she says, T’ve got surprisin’ news for you. I’m 
going to marry Colonel Home’—juist like that. Sur¬ 
prisin’ news! Ye could ha’ knockit me doon wi’ a feather. 
I never tbocbt that soor-lookin’ customer would bev tbe 
sense to seek a wife, nor tbe luck to get sic a denty yin.” 

Mrs. Stark gave a snort of wrath. “Wbae are ye ca’in’ 
a ‘soor-lookin’ customer,’ Easie Orpboot? Tbe laird? 
D’ye no ken that be could bev the pick o’ tbe bale coun¬ 
tryside, an’ Lunnon and a’ ? Tbe laird o’ Phantasy! Ma 
word! Miss Gilmour’s done week She’s ca’ed ber yowes 
to nae silly merket. She kens what’s what, if ye dinna, 
Easie ma wumman. A braw man and a braw place an’ 
an auld name—what could lassie want mair ?” 

“ ’Deed, Mrs. Stark,” said Easie, surprised at tbe wrath 
she bad aroused. “I’m no licbtlying tbe laird. It’s true 
what ye say, but for a’ that I wadna fancy him masel’. 
I aye likit an easy-tempered blythe kinna man. But,” 
she gave ber broad laugh, “a’ this talk o’ marryin is 


310 


PINK SUGAR 


fair gaun to ma heid. If Jimmie wnd write frae Canada 
and send me an address I wnd juist bundle awa^ to him.” 

Miss Wotherspoon closed her eyes for a moment as if 
in pain, her usual protest against Easie’s too rollicking 
way of speaking; then she said with more than her usual 
prim superiority of manner: 

‘^Youll take a cup of tea, Mrs. Stark, you and Mrs. 
Dickson 

^^hlo me,” said Mrs. Stark. ^J’m gaun hame this 
verra meenit to ma parritch,” and Mrs. Dickson also 
refused, hut more politely, the proffered hospitality. 

^^There’s nothing but changes,” Miss Wotherspoon said, 
folding her scarf carefully. ^^Miss Carter and Mr. Brand 
—^ye would hear aboot that ?” 

said Mrs. Dickson. “Wasn^t it queer that Dick¬ 
son should have seen that first? Ye mind I telPt ye 
what he said ae day I had ma tea here ?” 

Mrs. Stark demanded to be told what news this was 
about her minister. 

^‘Miss Carter, the governess,” she said. “Ay, I ken 
her. She went often to see puir iSTannie Tait. A likeable 
lass. We whiles hed a crack in the passin’. . . . But 
what aboot Miss Brand when the minister taks a wife ?” 

“As to that,” said Miss Wotherspoon, “I could not say. 
But next month she’s going for a trip abroad with Mrs. 
Strang. I ken that, for I’m to go and look after the 
minister in her absence.” 

I heard that,” Mrs. Dickson put in. “And how 
lang will it be for. Miss Wotherspoon ?” 

“Three months at least. Ay, I’ll feel it queer to be 
back in a Manse again, and not in my old position,” 
Miss Wotherspoon sighed. 

“So you will,” Mrs. Dickson agreed sympathetically. 
“Fancy Miss Brand awa’ to the Continent! She’s cornin’ 
oot. My, d’ye ken I’d like fine to see her get a guid 


PINK SUGAR 


811 


man. Mind yon she deserves it. I’ve kent her a’ her 
days. Strangers dinna tak’ tae her, she’s no way wi’ 
her to mak’ hersel’ liked, hut she’s good a’ through. . . . 
Weel, she’ll mehhe meet wi’ somebody on her traivels.” 

doot it,” said Mrs. Stark. ^^She’ll he a dour crop 
to lift. . . . Will ye be losin’ yer place, Easie, when the 
Miss marries?” 

Easie turned from the fire, her face flushed with her 
efforts, but serene and smiling as usual. ^^Na,” she said, 
^Ve can bide here as lang as Miss Fanny bides. But I 
never look far forrit. There’s no sayin’ whaur I’ll land.” 
She straightened herself up, a handsome woman with her 
comely face and fine shoulders and smooth round arms. 
^T’m no auld. I daursay there’s a heap o’ livin’ afore 
me yet, an’ I’m fit for onything.” 

‘^Oh, wheesht,” cried Miss Wotherspoon, ^^and mind 
what an uncertain thing this life is.” 

Easie laughed in kindly scorn. ^^There’s some folk 
creep through this warld wi’ their hands aye ower their 
heids for fear they get a skelp. What’s the use o’ that? 
It’s a graund warld if ye tak’ it the richt way. I’ve 
naething but ma twa hands to work for me, but I’m no 
feared.” 

Mrs. Stark gave a short laugh as she rose to go. 

^^Ye’re a cheery yin, Easie,” she said. 

Eebecca Brand heard the news from Lady Carruthers. 
They met on the Friday morning on the road near the 
Manse, and Lady Carruthers flung herself exuberantly 
on the unwilling Rebecca. 

^Tsn’t it delightful, this news ?” 

“I haven’t heard any news,” said Rebecca. 

^^JSTot about Colonel Home and dear Kirsty Gilmour? 
I simply must call her Kirsty. In the face of great 
happiness one simply cannot be formal, and besides, of 


312 


PINK SUGAR 


course, she will be settled here for good now. Of course 
I saw it from the beginning. It was too suitable not to 
come true: the money and everything. ... I only heard 
this morning and I’m on my way to Little Phantasy now. 
I want to be one of the very first to wish her joy. A 
love story is so precious to happily married people. As 
Sir Andrew said to me when I told him, ^If they are as 
happy as we are they will be haj)py indeed.’ ” 

^^Did he say that ?” said Rebecca unbelievingly, re¬ 
membering Sir Andrew’s gloomy speechlessness. 

Lady Carruthers fiitted from that subject and alighted 
on another. 

“And I hear your brother is engaged to Miss Carter. 
So suitable in every way. And you are meditating a 
flight to Rome with Mrs. Strang? How our little com¬ 
munity is stirring and spreading its wings! Oh, isn’t 
life wonderful? That’s what I always say, Tsn’t life 
wonderful?* ** 

She went, and Rebecca turned and retraced her steps 
to the house. She had meant to do a variety of things, 
but they would have to wait for a more convenient sea¬ 
son; at present the refuge of her own little room was 
what she felt she must have. The news was not unex¬ 
pected; she had been prepared for it. She had thought 
she did not care, that she could hear it and be calm. But 
now that it was come it seemed to drain her strength, 
to make her feet heavy and unwilling, to leave her ex¬ 
ceeding comfortless, and worn, and old. 

She locked the door of her room and sat heavily down 
in the old wooden chair with arms that stood before the 
writing-table in the window. 

Anyway, nobody knew. How amused every one would 
be if they knew that she, Rebecca Brand, the little, plain, 
ill-dressed, unattractive sister of the minister had been 
dreaming dreams about the laird of Phantasy. Kirsty 


PINK SUGAR 


313 


would not be amused—she did her the justice of believing 
that—but she would be worse, kind beyond enduring. 

Well, it was all over. It had been very innocent and 
unharmful, and surely Archie Home was none the worse 
that all unknown to him some one had been thinking of 
him, caring for him, praying for his well-being. And 
she would never let her thoughts wander to him again, 
he who was soon to be another woman’s husband. Ke- 
becca had the unswerving morality of the girl in the old 
song: 

^‘1 daurna think o’ Jamie, 

For that wad be a sin. ...” 

She opened the shabby desk and taking out the pho¬ 
tograph that she had cut from a paper and mounted 
clumsily on pasteboard, sat with it in her hand. It was 
all she had to show for her romance. 

Presently she lifted her head and looked, as she had 
so often looked, across the fields to Phantasy. In the low 
meadow over the hedge from the Manse garden, a man 
and girl were walking—Archie Home and Kirsty. 

It was a bright mild morning and the two were walking 
slowly in the sunshine, stopping every now and again 
when the conversation became too absorbing. Through 
the open window Rebecca could hear Kirsty’s laugh, and 
see the way they looked into each other’s eyes. 

She sat and watched them till they climbed the stile 
and passed out of sight. 

could have loved him,” she told herself, ^^but that’s 
all I could have done. I could never have amused him 
or delighted his eyes. I could have lain at his feet and 
adored him. He will be the grateful, adoring one always 
—and that’s how it should be. It’s much better so.” 

But the fact that it was better so made her bow her 
head on the writing-desk and weep a few hot difficult 


2U 


PINK SUGAR 


tears. At first her thoughts were bitter. She felt de¬ 
frauded. Her youth was passing, well-nigh gone, and 
life had so far brought her nothing but a fight with 
poverty and hard work. Why should one have so much 
and another so little ?—Then her own common sense came 
to her aid. The good God would have it so, some must 
pipe and some must dance. What right had she to ques¬ 
tion when she had so much—health, steady nerves, a re¬ 
spected name, the remembrance of honoured, loved par¬ 
ents, work to do and strength to do it. As she thought 
of all she had she began to feel ashamed. She need envy 
no one. Compared with Kirsty^s her life seemed dull 
and meagre, but it was in her own hands to make it rich. 

Eebecca had always been somewhat complacent about 
herself and her actions. She had never really doubted 
that she was a thoroughly estimable person, hard-working, 
conscientious, honest almost to a fault, greatly to be es¬ 
teemed. It was not for her to cultivate the fiowers of 
politeness and gentleness, and the desire to please. She 
was strictly utilitarian, like a vegetable garden. She 
could have said with Weir of Hermiston that she had no 
call to be bonnie, she got through her day’s work. 

But now Rebecca was not so sure. She had never quite 
forgiven herself her rudeness to Kirsty. Might there not 
be a happy mean? Kirsty was all sweetness and grace: 
she was like a fiower garden, something fair and pleasant 
to delight all comers—something fragrant to be remem¬ 
bered. Rebecca knew that she could never be like that. 
^^But,” she thought to herself, ^Vhy shouldn’t I be like 
the cottage gardens round here, useful with berry-bushes 
and cabbages, but brightened with a few hardy common 
flowers, sweet-williams, say, and candy-tuft, and some 
bushes of the little prickly yellow Scots roses . . . ?” 

She even smiled to herself at the thought. Had she 
not rather forgotten about the hardy simple flowers ? . . . 


PINK SUGAR 


315 


This room now—she seemed to see it with new eyes. 
Those thick crochet mats, grown yellow with repeated 
washings. That shell-box. Those bottles of coloured salt. 
They were ugly, they were useless, but she had kept them 
all these years. Anybody else would have managed to 
buy some pretty things for her own room. . . . With 
something like a shock Kebecca realised that it was self- 
complacency that had made her keep everything as it had 
always been—a feeling that she had a soul above mere 
prettiness. She reflected, ^Tt will all be changed when 
Stella Carter comes to the Manse. Rob will no longer 
be cheated out of the pleasant things of life. Shefll 
make it bright and gay for him. If you are clever about 
that sort of thing, beauty costs no more than ugliness.” 

She stood up and straightened herself before the little 
dim looking-glass, pulled down the jumper she wore, and 
tried to make her hair a little fuller round her ears. 

^T’ll have to get some clothes to go to Italy,” she said 
to herself, and the thought awoke, almost shamefacedly, 
a little gasp of anticipation. Italy! Three months of 
wonderland—^no meals to plan for, no dishes to wash; 
rest, freedom, beauty. . . . When the three months were 
over she would have to work. But what did that matter ? 
Somehow the sudden breach in her complacency had stiff¬ 
ened her courage, had even given her a new sense of 
exhilaration. She was determined now to take hold of 
life with both hands, and to keep hold of it. 

She went back to the dressing-table and lifted the 
crochet mats and the shell-box and the bottles. Out of 
a drawer she took a piece of Chinese embroidery that 
Mrs. Anthony Hay had once given her and which she 
had put away as a useless sort of present, and laid it on 
the dressing-table. She was amazed at the effect of the 
rose and blue and gold on the mellow old wood. The 
thing, the act, seemed to her symbolical, and she stood 


316 


PINK SUGAR 


for a little looking out of tlie window with eyes which 
were both bright and thoughtful. 

But the morning was passing, and it was after twelve 
o’clock. She turned to the table in the window, locked 
the writing-desk, and picked up the photograph which 
lay on it. With head erect and shoulders squared, she 
marched downstairs to the dining-room, where she knelt 
before the fire, and, tearing the photograph into small 
pieces, poked each piece carefully into the fiames and 
watched it burn. 

Then she went into the kitchen and made a pudding 
for the early dinner, not a plain rice pudding as she had 
at first intended, but a bread pudding with jam on the 
top, and switched white of egg to make an ornamentation. 


THE END 

























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